Survival
by jkwasher
Summary: Begins about a year after S3E10, with references to books HiE and AtCF during a congenial evening at Walt's cabin, as Walt finally experiences Vic's Lasagna Rustica. This story explores the past 10 months before moving into the future. Walt and Vic contemplate career advancement, retirement, family and a permanent relationship.
1. Chapter 1

**Survival**

**(Set after S3E10 and references HiE and AtCF books)**

**Kudos to the creator of Durant, and merely an homage to his characters. After a reader PM'd and contested my use of "Tensleep," I will refer you to the mountainous recreation area and Permian sandstone, which are indeed spelled "Tensleep." The tiny town itself is spelled "Ten Sleep." Hope this helps. Also, an Italian feast with centerpiece might not fit on the kitchen table for 3 in Walt's cabin. Also, we have NO idea how Vic is with horses in general; we have only seen her with a recently-traumatized wild horse, in the context of catching a murder suspect. She may be fine with horses; she got Horse to the vet just fine in S2E8. I also haven't found any specific references in the books. These just explain a few of my choices, here.**

"Shouldn't there be some sort of survival course for prospective SITs?" Vic asked, sipping her third glass of a lovely red wine that evening, courtesy of Henry Standing Bear. Walt had resorted to his default Rainier beer. She had been counting: two, so far. His consumption had really gone down in the year since the Barlow Connally shooting. She considered she might have something to do with that.

Walt tilted his head and looked up from his beer. "SITs?"

"Sheriffs in Training," she explained. "Prospective, of course."

"Of course," acknowledged Henry gravely.

The three of them sat ensconced in Walt's cabin after she had finally had the chance to prepare the very fine Lasagna Rustica attributed to her Uncle Alphonse's restaurant in Philadelpia. She had only made it once before, but the attempt had not been repeated since Walt's assault on Tensleep two years before, and she and Walt were having their very first dinner at the cabin with a guest as a…well, unofficial _couple_.

They were all sitting at a makeshift table she had cobbled together out of packing crates she had borrowed from the shed, the sturdy top over the assemblage an old door, all pieces scrubbed to within an inch of their lives specifically for the event. Although none of the chairs matched, she could care less. The tablecloth was red-checks, no doubt from some past picnic, and the late-season fresh wildflowers, courtesy of Walt, very much said _home._ She had originally thought to eat outside, but the robust Indian Summer had suddenly faded to a bleak wintry chill in that sudden seasonal change that was Wyoming. Warmth from the cheerful fire and a fat candle on the table dispersed that chill with a mellow glow.

She had of course asked Walt, before fresh-washing and using the tablecloth. She didn't want to dredge up any sad or unwelcome memories on her first attempt at entertaining in his home.

"So, what do you guys think? About the training, I mean." She tried to keep it light.

Both men responded to her query with raised eyebrows, before looking at each other, tilting their heads. They were thoughtful. Too much so, and she knew where that might lead, so she interrupted their contemplations

"Oh, c'mon, I'm from Philly…I'm tough, but I might need a bit of coaching to make it in the wilderness, and if you really want me to run in a few years, Walt, I may end up stranded in this county in fucking nowhere…You and Walt know these mountains, Henry, maybe I should at least get acquainted up close and personal?"

"It's not a bad idea," Walt finally allowed, and she wondered if somewhere in that head of his he were PTSD-ing his own experience as he pondered, including his infrequent mentions of spirit guides up in the mountains. She had withheld comment on said guides, but whatever had helped him survive, had brought him back to her, those, she thanked.

He went on, "We might as well work with her while we are both still spry enough to keep up…" He still rarely missed pointing out their age difference when with Henry. He would not speak to it in larger company, though. Say, with daughter Cady or the less senior deputies, and that did warm her heart.

She threw a pillow at him for even mentioning it, tactically and tactfully missing his Rainier, but his eyes lit with promise of retribution, the Longmire _Later_ in his eyes. Her eyebrows lifted in challenge. _We'll see how just old are you are_, indeed, _Later_. She had worked very hard to remove the 'O' word from his vocabulary, if not from his thoughts. How fortunate she was to be fluent in WaltSpeak, where he spoke his heart through his eyes. Those early years, that was all she had from him, and had somewhat learned to be his translator in crisis situations.

"No," agreed Henry, "it is not, since she is already learning to ride bareback and western with me, but after her 'hunting accident' with Omar a couple of years ago, she could certainly use some back country polish."

Unspoken there was that in an English saddle, she was a proficient jumper from her teenage years, but the sitting trot, latigo knots and riding without a saddle was still difficult for her.

"Walt already lets me help with Horse," she offered. She very much wanted to surpass the 'dude' phase if she were going to be a serious contender for sheriff whenever Walt decided he was through. Some days she thought it might be the next month, then next year, then maybe many years down the road. She knew he loved it, and probably needed it far more than she did at this juncture. It staved off the inevitability of the "R" word: Retirement, and being sheriff kept him from joining his former boss Lucian in that old-guy state. She liked that he was in no hurry. She herself was in no hurry. There was still time, still a lot to learn.

Well, except for her pesky biologic clock unexpectedly kicking in, and doing little checks here and there. Like, gotta make a decision here soon, no kids with the older guy, or to try for one or two. But that was a discussion involving Walt for _much_ later. Right now, they were barely a _couple._

"Well, even now, I doubt if I could keep up with either of you at altitude, or at orienteering," she admitted, returning to the here and now, "and I am a total washout at tracking. Also, if I were supposed to catch or hunt dinner, I can pretty much guarantee we'd end up hungry, and probably thirsty. And…I'd freeze in a heartbeat." She did not add that Walt had cheated death more than once in the wintry landscapes, despite growing up near the Bighorns. "I know Ferg has some of those skills, but…"

"But, he's young and still inexperienced. So, survival skills? Mmmph," Walt grunted. He took another sip of his Rainier, and his eyes narrowed.

She shrugged, then trimmed a sliver of lasagna from the baking dish and put it on her plate, before slicing it into small pieces.

"No lasagna rustica out there," said Henry agreed gravely, but there was a sparkle in his eye.

"Just think about it," she urged, chewing with relish. It brought back all _sorts_ of good memories and aromas from Uncle Alphonse's over the years, and her eyes closed in anticipation, because she knew Walt also liked watching her eat. He even assisted her here and there with that…but that might be for the _Later _promised in his eyes_._ And, she had planted the seed about the training. Let them see where they took it, what they made of it.

Vic knew that a year or so back Walt had helped out one of Mathias' female deputies to be a better law enforcement officer over a couple of weeks while she was training in Nebraska. At the time, she had bit her tongue. It was a noble thing to do on his part, but she thought there might have been an attraction of some sort. Once she even considered that it might be the uniform, and wondered if Walt had experienced the hots for any of his fellow female Marines umpteen years ago. Then again, Henry had mentioned the deputy once or twice since then, but she had bit her tongue on that, as well. That was between Henry and the deputy, or maybe between Walt and Henry.

Unproductive thoughts, because the look in Walt's eyes then had been and still was _only_ for _her, _and she came back to present just as Henry was saying, "I would be glad to teach her tracking if you will teach her survival in the cold. You might not appreciate me with her in the same sleeping bag."

The ruddy color on Walt's cheekbones betrayed his response to that, although he said nothing. She smiled inwardly.

"Wow, thanks, you two."

Walt's eyes came up to hers. "We both want you to succeed," but she could see the fear in his eyes. Fear that she one day might do something like he had done at Tensleep? Fear for her? Probably _yes_ to both.

She laid a hand over his, where it rested in his thigh and kept her eyes on his. "Thank you," she said, but her own eyes said to him, "_I want learn to survive, because I love you and don't ever want to leave you_."

Hopefully he was as proficient at VicSpeak as she was at WaltSpeak.

"Now, who is ready for Tiramisu?" she asked brightly and the evening continued as a great success.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Sorting**

Vic began to clear dishes after Henry formally thanked them for dinner, put on his coat and said his goodbyes. While Vic was preoccupied in the kitchen, he gave Walt _the eye_. Walt swung on his suede jacket which still bore the white stitching on the left shoulder thanks to his run-in with Chance Gilbert the year before, donned his hat, and together they sauntered out onto the porch. Henry leaned against a post in the brisk air. Walt stood impassively, arms crossed.

"Are you going to discuss it with her?" asked Henry without preamble. He did not specify _what._

"Yep."

"Are you going to explain why you have been keeping her out of the field whenever possible? She was at the Pony a few weeks ago crying into her beer about _office crap_. I edited that. You know the word she used. She is chafing at your restrictions, Walt. The larger investigation is in Federal hands, now. The danger to her has decreased dramatically."

"Yep." He was unsurprised by Henry's concern. She was more than competent to be out there alone, more than either Branch or Ferg, but ever since Chance's, and the unknown puppetmasters pulling Barlow's, Jacob's and Malachi's strings, he had found ways to keep her back, and into more in-house, often data-based investigations. She was good at them, but her forte had been and always would be in the field. It had been almost a year, and the investigation had been passed onto the Feds months ago. It was time for that discussion, more than time, really.

"And now she wants to learn survival techniques. That is bound to rub you wrong, Walt, if you are trying to keep her safe."

"Yep."

You can stop with the _yeps_—what are you going to _do_?

He shrugged. "We'll train her. I would rather we train her than lose her to the elements, or her lose a suspect because I didn't let her learn to survive and navigate in the wilderness. I don't think there's any question she's gonna run for sheriff. We've already talked about me resigning part way through next term, and then her running when my term's up."

"Then it is settled: I will continue to work with Vic on her horsemanship. I will also encourage her participation in a few tracking opportunities as they arise."

"Thanks, Henry. We'll look at our schedules—and the weather, and figure out some winter camping somewhere in all this."

"While her training is settled, what you will still not acknowledge is that while you want her to _succeed_, you still want to keep her _safe_."

Walt just gave a close-lipped smile.

Henry shook his head. "I stand by what I said almost a year ago. You are a lucky man, Walter Longmire, and I still want you or Vic to find me a woman who looks at me the way Vic looks at you. I want to be able to look at her the way you look at Vic."

That surprised him. Who but Henry had noticed how they looked at each other? The entire town? Walt just ducked his head and smiled. He was sure the looks between them that Henry referred to had existed well before either of them had been willing to acknowledge such things existed.

"Walt, you also need to admit _to her _that you no longer _want_ her to run for sheriff when you retire. I believe that is why you are procrastinating at setting a date. You need to tell her _that_."

He lifted his head and pursed his lips. Although that was not exactly true, Henry could always see through him. He blew out his breath in frustration. He had no ready answer to that.

"You _both_ need to have that discussion before you go any further with your lives."

He nodded, but he really did not want to have that conversation. Things were finally so _good_ between them at both home and for the most part, office. He didn't want to spoil things.

"Play for her, and then talk. She likes it when you play."

She did like it when he played piano man. A little Fats Waller, a little Gershwin, and she would relax in his arms. This time, he would have a guilty ulterior motive for playing. Unlike other times, he would not be playing from the heart as he usually did, before breaking a hornet's nest of truth open on her.

"I thought it went well," Vic said from the kitchen as he came back in, carefully hanging up his jacket and hat, and blowing on his hands. It had started sleeting just before Henry pulled away. The damp night promised worse weather before morning.

She looked absurdly young and fresh in candlelight—he had always thought women looked good in candlelight—and he regretted the necessity of spoiling the evening with the upcoming discussion. He thought about asking if she'd like him to play, but she took that decision out of his hands.

"So, are you going to tell me what you and Henry were so earnestly discussing out there? You were seriously serious for a bitchin' long time." Her voice was flirty, but her intent, _not._

He inhaled. It was time to broach it. No time to set her on his lap at the piano and warm her up to it, he just had to _say_ it.

"Come here," he said softly, drawing her from the kitchen, pulling her to him and down onto the sofa. She smiled quizzically, but let him put his arm around her, his chin on the top of her head.

"I have to confess to a few things."

He could feel her go wary, questioning, stiffening a little. Mental note: _Don't try that again. _Confessions were _never _a good way to broach anything with her.

"Not _those_ kind of things. It's not _that_ bad…"

He felt her waiting. She was good at that—with him, she had to be, it took him forever to stop dissembling if he started.

"Okay, it's like this: I've been keeping you back because I've been afraid."

"Back—you mean, at the station? Out of the field? Of course I've noticed it." She bit her lip. "Because…you're scared of what might happen? Like—I might get—_hurt_?"

"Yep.

"Like Chance's, attacked by Branch, punched in the nose, hit by a car, stuff like that?"

"Yep." He winced inwardly, remembering her taking punches from Lorna Dove, and then the one from _him. _He had tried to pull it mostly unsuccessfully, and later realized she had saved him that day from being arrested by her for assault on Jacob, who would most definitely have pressed charges.

"So, when I asked about survival training you panicked, _afraid_ that I'll freeze my toes and fingers off, or something?"

"Or something. And there's more."

She exhaled. "Oh, goody," she grimaced. _More_…? Fuck me, Walt, just _say _it."

"Nothing has changed for me. I—still want you to stay."

She exhaled again, and waited to draw him out. He appreciated that about her. She finally prompted softly, "_But_…?"

"_But,_ I'm afraid if you run for sheriff, you'll get hurt again." He closed his eyes, waiting for the explosion. When there was none, he chanced a glance at her. She was white, but, if he were fortunate, _thinking_.

"Oh."

She had to be disappointed, in him, in _everything_. So much investment in time in Durant, in her life, in _him_…and here he was blighting an enjoyable evening, and possibly a future life together.

"So," she said slowly, "I asked you after Barlow's shooting, and I'm asking you again now: is it the s_heriff _or the _man_ who wants me to stay?"

That time, he had taken off his badge so she understood it was _both_. That had not changed, but he needed to reassure her. "Both. Of course it's still both. And about your professional future, it isn't that I don't think you can do it—I know you will be a good sheriff. I'm just not sure I can stay there on the sidelines if there's a chance you might get hurt." He struggled to explain. "I just have to figure out—how to let you be _you_. Henry thinks I don't want you to run, but that's not really it. I am trying to convince myself not to run _against_ you, as your protector. So far, I'd say the odds are in your favor and you're winning."

She pulled away a little, looking into his eyes, trying to divine the real message. "So—you're not _telling_ me what to do, and you're admitting it _worries_ you, but…you'll let me _try_? You mean that?"

"Yep."

"More yeps."

"Yep. I know it's not right to keep you back like I have been, and I mean to let you do your job. I just wanted to let you know."

"Okay…?"

"And that brings me back to Henry. He and I are in agreement that we'd rather have you know what to do in a blizzard, stranded somewhere or tracking down a suspect than without training, either as a deputy _or_ sheriff."

"Okay! That's better than I thought —"

"And…" it just came out in a rush, "he wants you and me to find him a girl."

Vic snorted and burst out laughing. "A _girl, _I hope he said a _woman_—fuck that, he wants _us _to be his…Jeremiah Rains? To find a "willing girl from south of the border to ease that tension which is part of a man's daily life?"—or whatever his bullshit spiel was…"

He tamped down that thought immediately. Even the _notion_ made him wince. "Henry also thinks you and I should talk about our personal future-our future together."

_That_ sudden change of topic stopped the laughter, huffed out momentary silence, not what he had expected. Her eyes suddenly looked like wary amber splinters. She quickly pushed away and sat up straight. "_Henry _thinks that, but not _you_?Oh, whoa, not sure this is the time for that, Walt. I'm in no rush."

She didn't understand, yet, but Henry had. Henry knew he didn't like change, uncertainty, emptiness, sleeping alone, all hell for him, but Henry _also_ knew he had been through those hells for a long time preceding Martha's death. The cancer and its consequences had exacted tolls on both he and Martha well before she was taken. He tried to explain. As usual when trying to say anything to a woman, he stumbled.

"Ahhh…" He finally gave up and blurted out, "Vic, I don't want to be alone, anymore."

Her eyes were huge and bored into his. She opened her mouth to reply, even as the house phone began to ring shrilly. Insistently. It did not stop until his voice came on with a brief message—_no longer Martha's. _He saw her awareness as she realized the outgoing message had been altered. Her eyebrows raised in question, before he saw her go white around her mouth as the incoming message from Ruby began. Walt moved swiftly to intercept the call, and he knew she had suddenly figured out that the most likely reason for Ruby to ring so late at night was…a _body_.

Well, the timing sucked, but it was part of both of their professional and personal lives. It hadn't always been that way…


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Genie Philly-Style**

_Okay, this story is *not* going as I commanded it…I think I need the genie from the following story to help me out here, but it at least seems like an interesting path. Please let me know what you think. I promise they will be getting back to Survival—but, is it survival in the wild, survival of their relationship, plain old survival from whoever has it out for them, or…all of the above? This chapter is set a few weeks after the S3E10 ATA shooting at Barlow Connally's ranch._

_P.S. I personally have experienced a Sheridan, WY soaphole and sat on cacti. HA!_

—_**Ten Months Ago—**_

The old chalkboard had appeared in the cabin's back storage room like magic. It was a bonafide mystery. One day the room had been empty and full of dust, the next morning as he carried his trash to the bear-proof can behind the back porch, the board filled it, and the room had been freshly swept. He hoped the mystery would be solved before the snow came in a couple of months, because he always wintered his tack back there. When he got home from the Pony that evening a floor lamp with a brass shade had joined the chalkboard, with a long extension cord running into the house. He idly wondered if he rubbed the lamp, the genie might appear and solve the mystery.

When he thought back, he knew he had been at the Pony for dinner and a few beers the last couple of evenings, so no one had been at the cabin when the magic had been happening. He really couldn't say anything to anyone without sounding crazy, but he had an idea who might have done it. He just had to wait until he could ask her. Unfortunately, that week he and Vic were on different shifts, so he didn't see her if he left right at the end of his shift.

Ruby's sharp eyes immediately noticed the missing board in his office when she brought in his post-its that same morning he had noticed the lamp. She had been off the day before, or he was sure he would have been informed about the absence sooner.

"I—took it home to repair. It wasn't in the best of shape."

"Uh-huh. Been taking it out on the office furniture again, Walt?"

"Uh, not recently. Maybe it was from before."

"Well, okay, then. Just remember that board is County property! We _could_ get someone out here to fix it, you know. Elmer Dixon, maybe. He's a pretty fair carpenter."

"Well, so am I. I'll have it back soon."

"Like your cabin was going to get finished four years ago?"

"Ruby, not today. I will return it in better shape than it left. All right?"

She reluctantly nodded and let it go. He hated to deceive her about anything, and most of the time, trying to pull one over on her didn't work at all. It was just, he wasn't sure why the chalkboard had done its magic appearing act, and until he did, he didn't want to discuss it with anyone.

He worked late, hoping to catch Vic coming in for night shift. The investigation into the machinations behind Barlow's actions was going nowhere. He was dawdling in his frustration as he heard her boots taking the stairs at a rapid clip—like he used to. Now it seemed every day was just trudge, trudge, trudge. He was never in a good mood when an investigation spun its wheels, and especially _this_ one. About a minute later, she filled his door.

"Oh, hey, Walt. I need to talk, if you've got a minute."

"Okay." He waved her in.

She shut the door behind her, came in and just stood there. _That_ was odd, usually she would pull a chair up to his desk and put her boots up on it, or at least sit on the couch.

"I don't know if you noticed…"

He let his eyebrows rise, urging her to continue.

"Um, the chalkboard isn't in here, anymore."

"Ruby brought my attention to it, earlier. The case of the missing chalkboard."

"Well, it's not missing. I took it out to your place."

"To my place."

"Yep." She could use words he used against him so well…

"Why?"

"Well, I don't know if you've made any progress on the conspiracy, you know, how Malachi was getting court pipelines, and if anyone was above Barlow and Jacob in the loop…and you sure haven't been sharing…"

"Not much."

"…well, I thought maybe we could try it full-out Philly-style and do a murder board. And then I thought, fuck, that won't work, because we don't know who is in on the conspiracy, and people are in and out of here all day."

"Okay…"

"So I thought, where could it go where no one but a few people knew about it, to add things, adjust, try to put a case together for the state D.A….?"

"And you came up with…"

"Your back room. Okay, I know I should have asked you first, but I wanted to take it at night while I was on shift, and I used the back entrance here and at your cabin. I didn't want _anyone_ to see me taking it."

"Vic, you sound paranoid."

"_Walt_—your wife was murdered_, _Henry imprisoned, Cady hurt—presumably all at the bidding of this group of people. How did Malachi know so soon when the court dates had changed? Why were they going to deny bail for Henry?"

He scowled. Those aspects and a dozen others _had_ bothered him, worrying at him like splinters under his skin. They still did from time to time, he was almost just numb from it all.

"How did Barlow and Jacob dream up the idea of killing Martha? Barlow executed, pardon the pun, but Jacob had to be in on it to take the money for Ridges."

He knew his scowl had turned thunderous. It always did when Martha's name was used in any sentence involving those two men.

"Okay," he said, trying to direct back to the main issue, trying to keep the darkness from the edge of his vision.

"Walt, you are just too close to this…you probably shouldn't be on it except you see things when none of the rest of us do, so you _have_ to be on it."

He met her eyes at that, but she continued.

"Well, we are not set up to be techie, so we plain and simple do a murder board. We base it at your place, and when we have all the evidence in hand, make the connections, we put all the documents and links on a flash drive and turn it into the D.A. We may not be able to get all the records we want ourselves, but if we give them enough to get involved, get them _tempted—_something which is so compelling even _they_ can't ignore—well, they might even bring the Big Guns in, and _they_ can get anything we don't find. We just have to establish the links and enough evidence to get them poking around."

Big Guns was the ASD code for the Feds. Big Guns could take years to complete an investigation. It wasn't what he wanted, but he knew that with a conspiracy at that level, he probably didn't have the resources to complete that extensive an investigation. Hell, who was he kidding? He didn't have a _tenth_ of the resources needed.

She went on, "…at least it will be out of our hands and we can go back to being ASD, rescuing cows caught in soap holes and stranded hikers who sit on cacti and the like."

Those two events _had_ occurred on shifts the week before, and he tried to suppress a quick grin. It pulled him from the blackness, as she always managed to, it was a neat hat trick but no one could ever quite explain how she did it. Maybe it also fit the genie persona.

"Okay, then. You're lead on this. What next?"

"Well, we decide who to include in making the murder board."

"Ferg?"

"I think so, he can at least be researching when we need it. I'm not sure where Branch's head is, now. I know he said some things when we found him with Barlow, but those could probably be knocked out in a court of law, and I'm just not sure how rational he is, yet. Plus, with Branch's Bad Boy stuff since his shooting, the court might not believe him. Since Barlow's still alive, we need to find concrete proof behind everything, because Branch may be protecting him for some reason. Nobody's talking, so we go paper trail and follow the money."

"Branch may be protecting family, like Lucian, or his mother, from the fall-out."

"That could be. In any event, I think we have to keep our cards close to the vest. When time comes, I'll put it on several flash drives. One should go with all the original documents in the bank box—that only one of _us_ can open. That way, if something happens…" She tilted her head and shrugged.

He stared at her. She really _had_ thought this out, but the implications of that chilled him.

"That's because we don't know where this will lead," she said, sounding completely reasonable, but she was also the one who had taken the chalk board at night and used back entrances.

"The lamp…"

She smiled. We'll be working nights when we are both off duty."

He sighed. His mood was still dark, but much lighter with a plan more extensive than the simple vengeance he had intended, and with the prospect of more Terror Time. Neither of them had mentioned his plans regarding Jacob Nighthorse since the day of the Barlow Connally ranch shooting, nor had they addressed him asking her to stay. It was like they were at an impasse, a limbo of their own making. If they could get this investigation into _some_ element of motion, maybe those two topics could eventually be addressed.

"Okay, then. Monday night we begin."

She gave a sour smile. "Feel free to tack something up there beforehand if the urge hits."

He wanted to tack up Jacob's picture, but then, if the urge _really_ hit_,_ the board would _truly _require repair before construction of the murder board even began.

He also wondered what full-out 'Philly-style' would entail.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Ruby's Niece and the Murder Board**

—_**Eight Months Ago**_**—**

The weather was so lousy, Vic hoped everyone would stay home and leave them cozy and catching up on paperwork in the station. She clomped in and pulled off her gloves with her teeth so she could remove her boots, although she had initially shaken snow off before entering. She unzipped, unbuttoned, and yanked her knit cap off with relish, leaving her with the inevitable hat-hair.

The sheriff's office never took a day off, even in a blizzard. People still committed crimes or needed help, it seemed, _especially _in blizzards, as they apparently completely lost the ability to drive competently once the first flake of snow fell. The early call had been a traffic accident 20 miles outside town, and she was just getting back at 9 am, ready for, at the _bare minimum,_ hot coffee and dry socks.

She and Walt had worked late into the evening on the murder board the night before, and she still wasn't fully awake, even after coffee and a brisk highway accident-scene. The night on the cot at the station hadn't helped. When the snow had kicked in, Walt had offered his place to crash, but she really wasn't in the mood…she was in a _not quite _mood as raw as the weather. Not quite divorced, not quite done with the investigation, not quite ready to hash out the issues between them, she had yawned her way back to the station and slept fitfully.

"Mail for you," announced Ruby, and handed her an assortment, including a manila envelope. Vic pursed her lips at that one. The only mail like that she had received recently had been from Sean, or she should say, Sean's _attorney._ The divorce had been delayed _ad infinitum_ by minor financial things which could have been signed off on in a few minutes had he still been in the U.S. She figured he was just sticking it to her by putting her life on hold until the last minutiae had been signed off on in _two_ countries.

"Thanks Ruby," dropped the mail on her desk, and filled her Eagles mug. She warmed her hands and blew on it in preparation to adding the requisite milk and sugar. "Where is everybody, anyway? I thought I was out on the only call."

"Ferg is helping his dad weatherproofing a job site, today. Branch is at a therapy appointment. Walt was in earlier, but went over to the Bee about a half hour ago."

With Branch back part-time and pinch-hitting on dispatch, Ferg still had more duties and responsibilities on his plate. She and Walt had also occasionally thrown some of research into the Big Investigation his way. He was taking his new precedence seriously, but she understood his devotion to family. She had hers, back in Philly, and maybe, if she were _very_ lucky_, _another one here in Durant, someday. She understood.

"Oh, okay, then," she said, dumping and stirring until she had achieved a satisfactory mixture of coffee in her milk and sugar.

"I'm going to be leaving in a few minutes to help my granddaughter with her wedding plans."

Vic felt like she should _know_ about this. Ruby had a _granddaughter_ old enough to get married? Had Ruby told her about this and she somehow zoned out with all the brain static from her beating at the Gilbert compound, and then Sean's defection from the marriage? Some days she still wasn't sure she had made a complete recovery from either.

"So when's the big day, again?"

"In June, when else?—after the blizzards stop."

"Right. Which granddaughter?"

"Vic, my _only_ granddaughter. Janine. Works at Durant Memorial? I'm _sure _you've met her before, you're over there so much on cases, and I _know_ I told you she got engaged to John Hopper back at Christmas."

She winced, Ruby sounded _so _disappointed in her.

"I'm sorry, Ruby. My mind is not where it should be, lately. Divorce…" Vic eyed the envelope, flipping it with her finger.

"Ohhh. More hold-ups?"

"I don't know," she said honestly, and hoped the worry wasn't in her voice. "Maybe I'll be able to answer better after I read this."

"Okay," said Ruby firmly. "You read your mail and I'll head out in a few minutes to help Janine. It's the 27th, if you want to add it to your calendar, now."

"Ah. June 27th. I will. Are there invites?"

"There will be. That's what I'm going to help with, today." She added, almost slyly, her voice ending on a high, questioning note, "Plus-ones will be welcome."

She shook her head _no _and made a face at Ruby over that, but Ruby persisted.

"So maybe not a plus-one, but…did you find a place, yet?"

"No. Well, I'll amend that, yes, but there's not much out there on a deputy's salary. I'd need a room-mate."

Evidently she was _really_ disappointing Ruby, now. The dispatcher's mouth pursed.

"So, should we just use your old address for the invitation, and forward it?"

She clacked her tongue. "Uh, no. There are new tenants, and it might never get to me at that rate. Just send anything here."

"Here."

"Yeah, the station."

"You want me to send you a wedding invitation to the jail."

Vic exhaled, the suspense of what was in the envelope was killing her, and just below it was another one she saw from over at the courthouse. What _now_? She hadn't been kidding, her mind really was _not_ on what Ruby was saying.

"Whatever you and—Janine—think. She's always been so nice to us at the hospital." _There_. The young woman who had given her the manila envelope Gorski had left. At least she placed Janine, and she was pretty sure the last name was Reynolds, like Ruby's. "Please. Send Janine my congratulations. Oh, and hand-deliver it, if you want, don't worry about an address."

"Will do," said Ruby, mollified, as she grabbed a stack of what appeared to be the invitations, including a legal tablet covered with an intimidating list, and the inevitable Signature Ruby post-it notes.

"Wait," said Vic, as she felt her wet socks squishing on the wet floor. It was more than time to change to the dry socks in her desk. "Let's get a bag to protect those. It's _wet_ out there." She found one of the waste can trash bags and helped Ruby get the invitations inside. "I'm sorry, Ruby. I _will_ do better."

Ruby patted her arm and began to perform the button, zip, boot-tugging and insulation required for a trip back into the weather. "I know you will, Vic. Divorces are sapping. It should all be over soon and only get better from here."

The office phone rang, and Vic shooed Ruby toward the elements. Resigned, she answered the phone. She _really_ didn't want to go back out right away. Her coffee wasn't even cold, yet.

"Absaroka County Sheriff's Department."

"Vic? Glad you made it back safe."

"Oh, hi, Walt. What's the special, today?"

"French toast, want me to bring you an order? But I need to talk to Ruby."

"Yes to toast, no to Ruby. She just left. She'll be at Janine's."

"Okay, so no French toast for her. Do you have Janine's number?"

She flipped through Ruby's Rolodex and read it off to Walt. Sometimes Branch produced good ideas, like a numbers database to store on all their phones. It was time to update the department, even little by little, but it was not in place today. "And thanks for the French toast," she added. "It's filthy out there on the 16, I don't want to go out again unless there's a body."

"And I sure don't want any bodies. I'll wait on your order, back soon."

"I know."

She plunked down the phone as so ended another completely passionless exchange. It had been absurdly possible to pretend there was nothing between them, ever since the Barlow Connally fiasco. Anything personal had been put on hold until the investigation could be completed. Sometimes she had to ask herself if it had really happened, being held in Walt's arms in the examining room, and his eyes as he had asked her to stay while she read through her divorce papers, or whether she had just imagined it all.

Then she would remember how he had been willing to sacrifice his life at Chance's compound, had protected her from Branch, from knowledge of his wife's death, and before that, from Gorski's stalking, and she thought she _almost_ understood.

She thought how _right_ and pride-of-place it felt, cleaning his ear after he had returned from the David Ridges ambush. Well, that day at the Pony at least Cady and Henry _must have_ suspected something afoot, but Walt had never commented on it or given a sign. At the time, she had thought he had been on the verge of kissing her right there at the bar, with her face in his, but feathers—even _one _feather, if you could believe it, had been enough to distract him completely, to take his solo act down to Denver, excluding her. She sighed. She _did, almost_ understand. It had dogged his actions ever since she met him, so no surprise that it still weighed heavy and was something he felt compelled to finish before anything else intruded.

_Almost_ understanding also included figuring out that he would not say or do anything which might put her at risk until the larger investigation, the one over-arching the Connally shooting, was complete. That _anything_ included starting a relationship which might be used as leverage to weaken him, by hurting her as Martha, Cady, Henry and even Branch had been in the past. Together, over several weeks, they had finally figured it out, that the interactions between Barlow and Jacob had been ordered by three judges and yet nameless higher-up, possibly from his past. What he hadn't figured out yet was who the exact higher ups, singular or plural _were_, yet, or if _he_ had…he wasn't sharing with her. He was on the track, though. With Walt, that was sometimes enough.

And not a patient soul, she had to admit that the investigation was taking so _fucking long…_At one point, one evening a couple of weeks ago while they were both perusing the murder board at his place over Rainiers, she had snapped.

"I still don't fucking get it!" she exclaimed. "We're missing something."

"Probably several _somethings_," he admitted. "We need links here, here, and," he gestured, "_here_.

"We need the financials, at least of those judges."

"We don't have enough yet to ask for them."

"So, let's not _ask._" Her eyes bored into his.

"You're suggesting…"

"There's something in the financials of each of those judges that have to be the link. Three different judges, three different counties, all doing business with Jacob and/or Barlow."

"That in itself is pretty unusual, but not damning. The business transactions don't show anything unusual."

"So, it's not just _business_. There's something else there, something which doesn't show in the first go-round. Where else could casino money from investors be laundered?"

Walt did the Stubble Rub. That's what she had dubbed it, when he was in Deep Thinking Mode.

"Those men are all in their late 40s or early 50s." He was flipping through his notes from their biographies. "They all have children."

"Children—as in older children, young adults."

"Yep, as in—when Cady was 16, I suddenly wondered how we were going to pay for her college. I had always thought we'd sell the Powder Junction Ranch…"

"You had a ranch in Powder Junction?" That surprised her. Of course, she didn't know much about his finances or holdings, but she had assumed during the course of Henry's trial-to-be that it was not much. It was not her business, and she would not ask.

"Still do—my parents' ranch. I inherited it when they died, but I was sheriffing up here, and I couldn't work it. It was paid off, so I thought I'd refinance it, and I did. It paid for college—but not law school. I rent it out to a family down there."

She didn't say anything. There were memories in his eyes. Let him tell it his way.

"We bought this land outright, but after Cady decided to go to law school, Martha and I were already building here, so, I took a mortgage on this acreage, with the anticipated improvement of a home. It was tough for a while, paying two mortgages and building this property. Even after the first one was paid off, it's one reason this house is so modest, because it took a while to pay this one off, too…I've been taking most of my salary for payments. I just made the last payment on the loan last month. I'm not a bit sorry, because Cady's education came first, and I'm not leaving her with any bills to clean up after me."

"Oh. I didn't know…" She thought of all the times she had disparaged his modest, unfinished cabin, and suddenly felt leaden inside. There was such a thing as being too snarky.

"But…" he continued, "If these men have college-age children, there might be funds with _their _social security numbers that we can't see, even from a cursory financial viewpoint. Maybe that's where the laundering is, one level back. Sounds like a Malachi twist on the financials of Barlow and Jacob. Maybe we need to look at the socials of the _children_."

That had been two weeks ago. A recent _source_ which Walt had not divulged, had provided plenty of ammo. All three judges had multiple education accounts for _each child_, and mysterious payments funneled into the accounts each month from an anonymous source. _All three had the same anonymous source._ Bingo! Another tidbit…Cady's lawyer friend _had _to be implicated, because he was evidently sending the money to the Caimans and then back to those accounts. Talk about double-laundering! Walt was about fit to be tied, but he had said he couldn't say a thing until the investigation was wrapped up and sent out, except maybe caution Cady to be careful who she dealt with. More than ever, Vic was just glad they hadn't told Ruby—who could keep a secret, but through whom an innocent comment might have destroyed the investigation—or Cady.

So they were getting close, but as of yet, neither of them had talked about themselves, or the vendetta attempt on Jacob. After Walt had broken the case, she bit her tongue and resolved to wait. It was why he had been on it, after all, to find justice for Martha. Let that at least go to the state, if not along to the Feds, and they both would be well out of it.

Yes, she could still wait and be one of the boys, but really, _really_—they were, the both of them, not getting any younger. If he wanted a relationship with her, or heaven forbid, even _consider_ a family_, _they needed to start talking—well, more than _that—_pretty soon. But she shook off those thoughts; they were blizzard thoughts, something unproductive because she had too much time on her hands. The two of them needed to maintain the professional and impersonal relationship they had displayed for more than three years, even while the true nature of it had morphed into something different, simmering just beneath the surface, even if neither would or could yet acknowledge it.

Her eyes were drawn back to the two envelopes.

And suddenly, _fervently_,despite the weather, she wished there _were _a body, so they could be working together in the field as a team, taking her mind off…everything else.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**D-Day at the Red Pony**

**(Or)**

**Night Errant**

_**Author's Note: Uh-oh, this story is slowing down into some detail, way beyond my intent, you see, it is drawing me with it, draggggggging me behind…**_

—**Yep, **_**Still Eight Months Ago**_**—**

So, it was D-Day. Well, her personal one, more precisely: Divorce Day. No one had asked and she had told no one. When Ruby had returned to the office, the conversations had not returned to her envelopes, and Walt had occupied his dispatcher with a flurry of assignments. The weather was cooperating in only way Wyoming could. The snow had stopped dumping, the roads were cleared, but it was _still _fucking cold.

To be fair, Walt had asked after divorce a few times over the last two months, before apparently losing interest in the seemingly endless process, even as they slogged over the murder board together in the evenings. She knew without asking that the board had taken his focus. Now that it seemed on the cusp of a total breakthrough, she had seized upon that with a tiny bit of optimism that her divorce could not be far behind.

Sean had managed to drag out a really simple divorce by virtue of doing it from Australia (what ever happened to airmail—faxes—_email?)_ Nope, everything was manila envelopes from a law office in _Australia_, not even using his Newett Energy buddies stateside.

But earlier in the afternoon, she had received dueling manila envelopes from _both_ countries, announcing the termination of her marriage in succinct fashion—everything right-and-tight, keeping her Moretti maiden name and today's date. She idly wondered what _time_ of day the divorce was actually _final, _hoping Sean wouldn't stage a messy 11:59 pm drama of wanting to reconcile, but that seemed like a pretty remote possibility.

Vic sighed, because whenever the Records department at the Durant County Courthouse recorded the divorce, and if the clerk recording it happened to be Barb, Omar's sister with the married name she could never remember, it was probably about 3 minutes from being heard around the far reaches of the state of Wyoming. That meant that of all people, _Omar_ would likely be gifted with the delicious tidbit that she was finally free, no rings or legalities to worry about on his end, anymore. It also meant that any other man under 70 might try to stake his personal claim as well.

She sighed again. She _wished_ she were being narcissistic, but there just weren't that many young, single, professional women in the Durant area.

Omar's possible participation only brought _another_ consideration. She _thought_ Walt had asked her to stay on as more than his Undersheriff, but they had not yet discussed their personal feelings. He had never made clear whether her staying was more than a job decision, but she remembered how he had held her at the hospital, and how intense his eyes had been when he asked her to stay. She would swear she was not hallucinating over that, and yet, it seemed like a distant and misty memory because both of those events had happened around the time of her concussion.

Which brought her back to: was it time to announce her freedom, or did she have to go to Sheridan or further to whoop it up and prevent any awkwardness with the locals? Worse, did she _want_ to whoop it up?

Her cell phone rang. Caller ID said it was Cady. They had become closer during Cady's issues with Branch, and although she'd seen her in passing a few times, she hadn't heard from her in months.

"So, I hear you're a free woman." _Damn, _Barb _had_ been too efficient over at the courthouse.

"Well, from a legal standpoint," she said hesitantly, uncertain where the conversation was going. "I'm still at work."

"How about you and I go the Pony and have a few tonight? I thought you might need an ear. We can be girls and wear dresses, and I'll be your designated driver."

That was an unexpectedly thoughtful offer. It also might head off the Omars of Durant, to have a Wing-Woman. _Were_ there such things?

"Well…sure, that does sound kind of good, no pressure and all."

"I thought so. I know—Barb is such a _blabbermouth_. I was filing a motion today, and she asked me if you were seeing anyone, yet, now that you were free."

She grimaced. Yeah, pretty much as she had envisioned. "Did you set her straight, the answer is: No, I'm not, and that thanks to my Ex's generous financial settlement, I'm living at the jail? That should bring on the guys!" There should have been at least one f— in there, but she always tried to moderate her cussing around Walt's daughter, who was just calling to be kind. Why she tried for Cady, she was never sure. Cady wasn't a child, but she usually reserved her shock-talk language for guys who needed a reminder from The Terror, and Walt always seemed either immune or amused by it.

"No, not really, it wasn't any of her business, was it?"

No wonder the woman was a lawyer. Put in her place, she answered in a small voice. "No."

"So, do you want me to pick you up at the station, about seven-ish? I'll buy and drive."

She huffed, defeated. It _did_ sound good. "Okay." She would just have to dig out her dresses and shoes from the box downstairs, in the old file room near the shower room, and see if anything was wearable. They weren't something she needed every week or even every _month_, working in Absaroka County.

At exactly 5:01 pm she said goodnight to Ruby, but didn't poke her head into Walt's office; she knew he was still on the phone with someone at the state level about the conspiracy investigation, and she didn't want to interrupt. She figured Ruby would fill him in at some point after Barb's phone tree got around to her, but since Walt hadn't asked after the state of her divorce in a while, nor had they had any personal conversations, it might not even come up. He might have lost interest. So, was she or was she _not_ free, now? The law might say one thing, her heart another, but she was not going to push. If it were going to happen, it would happen—in time.

Cady looked very pretty in a print dress with a shrug under her winter coat and boots, in deference to the nasty weather, while she had defaulted to a little black dress which would have looked better in downtown Philly than in Rustic, Wyoming, but she hadn't bought much in the last three years, and fortunately, it still looked somewhat in style. The three inch heels were maybe a bit much for the Pony, and she hoped she didn't put a stiletto through a floorboard and snap it off, breaking an ankle in the process, or slip and fall in the parking lot. As opposed to a shrug, she had her leather jacket with her. She had her hair down and even wore fucking _earrings_. All-out for a place like the Pony, but in reality, once she got back outside, she would just _freeze._ The parking lot had been scraped to within an inch of snow-over-ice (probably in reaction to potential lawsuits) so her heels didn't have to work too hard to enter the Pony.

Henry wasn't around when they arrived, he was probably doing a dozen different owner-errands before the evening rush. Along the way, she had picked up that he owned some rentals, other business interests, and probably much more than his financials for the court had indicated, even if his cash-at-hand had been limited during his incarceration. She knew there was far more to Henry than the face he presented to customers. He just didn't advertise it.

She had asked him recently if any of his rentals would be soon available on say, a deputy's salary, Undersheriff or not. He had kind of put her off, saying that he would let her know if anything suitable came up. When he had never mentioned anything further, she decided the rental market in Durant was either more profitable than her measly salary could handle, or inventory was worse off than she had thought.

Cady tried to put her at ease with small talk with a story about a paralegal who had gotten an adoption and divorce file mixed up with each other. It was more sad than funny, really. The people in question must have been horrified. At least, _she_ would have been horrified.

"Okay," said Cady as they sat down at the bar, "what shall we order?"

Well, that was a good question. She didn't want to get plastered, nor did she want to think very much tonight.

"I guess—Cady," she started, but her heart just wasn't in it. "I dunno, maybe this was a mistake."

"No!" said Cady in bracing tones, "we'll just start easy. Two glasses of Henry's good red wine, Knife."

Knife Words could be model for one of the Sioux of the mid 1800s, inscrutable and solid. He was one of Henry's most recent protégé bartenders, working his way through culinary school in Sheridan days (she found that hard to imagine, but hospitality had become a thriving industry in the state) and tending bar most nights. Henry went through bartenders at an alarming rate. Word was, he taught them so well and to be so proficient, they almost always started their own businesses after leaving him, using his as a model.

Knife placed two glasses before them. Cady sniffed and sighed in appreciation, before taking a sip. "Henry sure knows his way around the reds."

Vic instinctively wanted to gulp the whole thing down and begin a road to oblivion, but settled for a sip. It actually _was_ good. She put the glass back down. Maybe she wasn't trying to go down that road as fast as she had thought.

"So, how are things at the station?" Cady asked, and Vic did not feel it was like prying in any way, just a pleasant curiosity.

"Better," she replied cautiously. "We're working more as a team on the complex investigations." She just couldn't talk about _any _investigations with Cady, especially the murder board one, or admit that Walt and she had some future discussions to make as to his future, her future, or even possibly _their_ future. It had just not been the time to discuss such things. With the rate they were going, she thought morosely, it might _never_ be that time.

Actually, the thing she absolutely could _not _say anything about to Cady, the young lawyer who had helped her defend Henry had suddenly popped up on the murder board's radar the night before. It was too soon to exactly determine his involvement, and she could say nothing, nor warn Cady, yet. That would have to be Walt's purview. His call.

The stool on her left squeaked, a blast of aftershave enveloped her, and when she turned, there, unsurprisingly, was Omar. It was _not_ her lucky day. She had hoped against hope that she had heard right last week and that he was guiding a bunch of high-paying dudes into the back country while growing back his Grizzly Adams beard now that hunting season had started. That he was clean-shaven spoke volumes.

"No ring, Vickie. No husband, either. Could it be my lucky day!?"

That was so in opposition to her thoughts, that she gave a half-hearted smile and took the long draught of her wine that she had first intended. It did go down easy and definitely mellowed things out.

"Good evening, Omar!" said Henry, coming from out of the kitchen like a welcome apparition. "What can we get for you, tonight?" he asked, refilling their glasses with the same red.

"Well, let's see. I'll start with one of those fancy beers, the hoppy ones I go for, and work my way into a steak. You know how just how I like 'em, rare with the garlic butter? Spud with the fixins. What are you having, Vickie?"

Vic shook her head, but she had to admit Cady threw herself into the fray in Wing-Woman fashion before the Vic who was holding back and slightly fuzzed with wine could tell him to _fuck off_.

"Hi, Uncle Omar, I thought you were up above Crazy Woman Canyon this week?"

Cady's voice seemed to startle Omar. It appeared he had just realized it was Cady sitting next to her. "Oh, just got back from taking out that California group. They got wet and came back early. Bunch of sissies."

Henry produced ice water for all three of them, and disappeared into the kitchen again.

"Ah," Cady replied. Vic, still trying to control her tongue, did not.

"So, Vickie," Omar tried again, all cheerful and bluff. It wasn't that she _didn't _like Omar, it was more that she didn't like him _like that. _Vic remembered the thick sheaf on Omar, mostly domestic disturbance incidents, all the charges against him pressed by his _wife_. She also remembered Walt saying Omar claimed to still love his wife but acknowledged they could and should never live together again. "Stop kiddin' around. What can I get you, tonight?"

"Nothing, Omar," she said, desperately trying to be polite and not explode, when out of the corner of her eye, Walt pushed through the swinging saloon doors, with his familiar purposeful stride. He came over to where she and Cady sat at the bar, hands at his personal parade rest, one hand over his Colt, the other on his cuffs, and she thought, _he is really tired, tonight_, because his right foot was dragging a little the whole way.

She suspected he had stared at the Murder Board for at least a couple more hours after she had left the night before. She wished she could hold him so she could make sure he actually got some sleep, so he would not be so tired. What an absurd thought for a finally-free, dressed-to-nines female celebrating at the local watering hole.

"Hi, Punk, Vic, Omar," he said, as Henry appeared again and automatically put a Rainier in front of him, which Walt waved away. "No, sorry, Henry, I'm here on Sheriff Business." Vic thought he looked more like he was on, "_I'm going to punch your lights out, Omar, business_."

"Aw, Walt, what do you need, now?" Omar sounded resigned, as though he would be expected to perform a munitions miracle that very moment.

"Nothing tonight, Omar," and Vic silently amended, _yet. _If it were a case, they might. A stray but piquant thought occurred, if Walt punched Omar, she might have to arrest _him_. Oh, the irony, to arrest the Sheriff. She had suddenly lost the train of the conversation, no doubt, it was the wine…

"Vic, we need to pick up a female prisoner over at Tri-County. Your bag's in my truck."

She started. He was _on duty_? She would swear the duty roster had Ferg's name on it for tonight…

"You can change here if you want." She scowled. The pieces did not fit. What had Walt always sad? Follow the evidence? Her bag with her uniform shirt and badge had been at the station when she left. And _she_ was not even on call…

"My gun and boots weren't in the bag, and are still at the station," she said, "and I've had a glass of wine…" And then she caught Henry's raised eyebrows. "Uh, two." No prevaricating, there.

"Well, I'm driving, so let's get going. Cady…"

"Not a problem. I'm buying, remember? You two crazy kids go have some sheriffin' fun with your prisoner."

Vic grimaced. "The perfect ending to the perfect evening."

Omar sputtered. "Isn't _she_ off duty? "

"No, on call. Comin', Vic?" he asked, turning on his heel, but allowing her to precede him.

Of course she was, and she led him out, but her heels gave her an advantage in height she didn't usually have. It was a different and kind of lofty feeling, when she turned her head, looking more or less _across_ instead of up to him. She also moved differently than in boots, and wondered if he even noticed, or how her hair rippled when it was loose, how her dress kind of floated around her legs. If so, he said nothing, just silently followed her out.

As she threw her jacket around her shoulders against the evening's potential frostbite, she said, "I am pretty sure I'm not on call, and you sure know how to fucking kill an evening," she paused, "but—_thank_ _you_. There are only so many ways I can say _no_ to Omar."

He put his head down and made a somewhat suspect noise as they got to the Bullet. She jumped in to her habitual shot-gun position, somewhat impeded by her heels, and fastened her seat belt.

"What? I'll need my boots and gun, can change at the station, give me 10 minutes…"

"You don't have to change, Vic. I kinda like the dress. And the shoes. You look beautiful."

_That_ stopped her. "What are you _saying_? Don't we have to get going—?"

He gave her a speaking look.

"Oh!—So, no prisoner, no Tri-County…?"

He shrugged.

"Why, you devil, you," she said as the glow from the wine receded. "So, Walter Longmire, dissembling? Are you always going to play the fucking knight errant for me? First Chance, then Branch, now Omar?"

The blue eyes suddenly turned on her, intense cobalt even in the mellow cab light. A moment passed. "I'd…kinda like to try."

That stopped her. She took a breath. Two. She still didn't have enough breath.

"Oh."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier that it was final today?" he asked softly. His voice wasn't so much gravel, now, more like baby-fine sandpaper.

"Oh. Well, you were busy when I was leaving, and Cady called and asked me to go out tonight. She heard it from Barb at Records…"

He winced. "So did Ruby, who eventually told me."

"Around the county in 90 seconds," she said bitterly.

He jerked his head in agreement. "More or less."

"Well, just take me back to the station. It's my final destination, anyway."

He turned his head in surprise. "The station?"

"Yeah. House changed hands last week." She hesitated. "I'm surprised Ruby didn't mention _that_."

"Me, too. Maybe she didn't know, or it hadn't gone through, yet? I thought…maybe you would need a place...never mind. So, where is all your house stuff?"

"Well, spread between the file room we cleared out last year, and a small storage locker west of town."

Silence. How had she rendered him speechless? Oh, that's right, it was _Walt, _who often enough didn't use words in his communications. She noted that he had turned right instead of left, and twisted her lips. The cold air still pouring from the vents was clearing most of the residual wine haze from her. Hopefully the heat would kick in _soon._

"The station is the other way," she pointed out helpfully, in case he had thought his way past the intersection.

He took a deep breath. "How would you like to celebrate your divorce? I mean, really celebrate. I know you didn't want to with Omar, or even probably Cady."

She glared at him. "It was very sweet of Cady to offer to pay for drinks and our evening. She knows I've been kind of down, lately."

His mouth worked, like he was chewing on a thought but actually chewed on his lips.

"I wondered. You didn't say anything."

"Wasn't your problem," she said, looking anywhere but him. It wasn't. He hadn't blown up her marriage, not really, despite Sean's assertions and snide remarks along the way. Sean and she had been having problems even before Durant. "Besides, we've been working the Murder Board pretty hard, I know you've been concentrating on that."

"So, then, Sheridan, so nobody has to know we aren't at Tri-County? I could buy you dinner."

It was an appealing idea, but the wrong way to ask, pinch-hitting as Plan B after a disastrous evening.

"No," she said, trying to plow through without hurting him, "thank you, but I think I'd just rather go back to the station."

His head swiveled around as though surprised, hurt, worse, maybe…_rejected_. Well, she hadn't meant _that._ She tried to repair the damage. Really, sometimes the big, tough guy was so _vulnerable._

"Ask me again some other time, Walt, and I promise to say yes," she said, closing her eyes, "It's been a shitty week overall with the house, the storm and the divorce, and I just had to fend off Omar."

"What about just a cup of coffee, then, or something more, at the truck stop?" It was half-way to Sheridan, but a lot closer.

She considered. Food _did_ sound appealing. "Well, I _am_ starved, and if you really have my bag, I have sneakers and jeans in it, just not my duty boots. I can change…"

"We're supposed to be headed over to Tri-County, so maybe it's good we're heading out of town in case Omar asks later."

"_Fuck_ Omar. I'm just _hungry_. Cady and I never even got to order dinner."

"Okay, then." He slowed the truck to turn around again.

"Wait!" she said, laying her hand on his bicep. "Where were you headed?"

"My place," he said sheepishly. "To the Murder Board. On autopilot, I guess. We're so _close_."

She thought of the tangle of yarn, string, construction paper, photos, and numbers tying to pertinent documents. The Caiman Islands appeared to be only the tip of the iceberg. Still, the murder board looked something very like the US highway system gone bad, but she knew in her heart they _were_ very close.

She stared at him. He caught her gaze. He stopped the truck. He looked straight ahead, not at her, and seemed to be struggling.

"What should we _do_, Vic?" His eyes were pleading _tell me. _Not, _I love you_, not a _personal "I want you to stay," _just lobbing it into her court for a return volley. He wanted her to guide the conversation, if not the evening.

She swallowed, not ready for such weighty questions. Instead, she bit her lip and tried for a light touch. "I'm too tipsy to think, yet, so definitely coffee," she said firmly, and as her stomach rumbled, she laid a hand across it, "and food. The truck stop will do nicely. I can change in back before we go in."

But she knew that wasn't the answer to the question he had asked.

What the _hell_ was wrong with _both_ of them?


	6. Chapter 6

**Survival**

**Chapter 6**

**Murder Board Redux**

_**Okay, so this is a transition chapter before coming back to the relationship…It was brought to my attention via PM that I really gave the Murder Board short shrift in prior chapters. It's only my speculative take on the plotline thus far, so don't ask me, these are only ideas for one version that might happen. I also don't know*anything* about how 4**__**th**__** season is progressing, except Tony Tost said in his most recent tweet that there will be a lot of "history" in it. I don't own anything, lowly fan writer, etc. etc.**_

—_**Seven Months Ago—**_

It had been almost a month since her divorce had been final, and almost every night since then she and Walt had sat on folding chairs there in the storage room at the back of his cabin and tried to piece together the huge pile of data damning a small group of greedy and unprincipled men. At least, so far, they were _all _men, except for the tiny stooge part Deena had played for Malachi via Darius.

A packing crate became their worktable housing the unruly mess of information which they doggedly kept linking with the board. A lot of it was extraneous paper, but some of the juicier nuggets were downright head-on incriminating.

Sometimes Ferg would join them for part of an evening, or bring them new information to add to the pile. She thought he mostly enjoyed just being _included_, allowed to express his two cents, and make occasional contributions. He made some good points along the way that they were overlooking, or just too fatigued to see. They had just sent him home to get some sleep an hour before, because he was on duty in the morning, but Vic was convinced his mood and his energy had finally turned away from the negative emanations which had seemed like the entire last year.

"Where the _fuck_ did you manage to _find_ all this?" Vic had asked Walt once six weeks ago, after the investigation had suddenly taken off as the pile grew. It was approaching the height of the stack of the byzantine health care act passed a few years before. Each document had to be identified, scanned and placed into the word and excel documents she had been preparing for over the last two months. Each piece was a nail in the coffin of the conspiracy which had been responsible for the few loose cannons, chinks in the armor which had unfortunately ultimately directly led to the deaths of Martha and Hector, and indirectly to the unlamented Miller Beck and David Ridges.

"Different places, I called in a few favors out of state, but a lot is from Ferg's brother in Sheridan. He kinda owed me a favor."

It must have been a _mountain_ of favors to match the _mountain_ of documents.

"Which brother is that?" Ferg had two, and a sister, if she remembered correctly. His dad was in construction, something like that. Ferg occasionally took a day off to help out his dad at sites.

"His oldest brother, Mark. Must be, oh, about your age."

_Ouch._ To Walt, ever the mentor of a youngster in trouble, a _young _man_ her_ age. Walt seemed oblivious to what he had said.

"He did, huh? Why did he owe you a favor?"

He looked up sharply from where he was scanning yet another document. "Some computer-related issues a few years back. Hacking, mostly."

Now, she was fascinated. "So you helped Ferg's brother out of a _computer hacking_ thing…"

"It was a misunderstanding, really, but it could have been felony material, so he's been pretty receptive to helping us round up some of these financials and emails."

"Seriously impressed, Walt," she said, scanning another document in and assigning it a number. "Had no idea."

As he reflected on an image taken from the stack of paper, she paused, wondering if the Murder Board were winding down, their on-hold relationship dynamics might change as well.

Walt had been firm about it as they had begun the project:

"_You_ said it months ago in this very truck, until we figure out who created Barlow and Jacob as pawns, anyone close to me is in danger. You're right, it's chess: the judges are the bishops, but we have to find the ones who could make the moves to put Barlow and Jacob into motion," he said, grimacing, "and we still haven't found the Queen who can make moves like that. That could be multiple counties, regional, or even state level." He added after a few moments, "Knights are sometimes good at taking down Queens, but I doubt there are any Knights in this particular chess set."

At that, she pursed her lips, wondered how recently he had looked into his own mirror, but he was _right_, the high echelon of corruption terrified her—at _that_ level, in _Durant_? How could four or five people in the lowest population, geographically largest county in America combat _that?_

Now he was back to staring at a single document in his hands. He finally, slowly, as though reluctant to do so, placed it in the open area in the middle on the Murder Board and stuck a pin firmly through it.

It was late enough she was getting bleary-eyed and coffee wasn't really doing it for her that late, but the latent caffeine rush was just enough to penetrate what he had just added to the Murder Board.

She inhaled sharply. "Fucking shit—The Queen?" she whispered. Hard to believe from where they had started, that they had found the enigmatic player who had set everything in motion…although it still looked like Martha's death was a momentary panic put into motion by a vindictive Barlow at the third tier of players in the game. It didn't look like the upper echelons had directed that, but it had been the weakest point of the game, where the pieces around it began trying to protect the others in quick succession. Hopefully the pieces would soon begin falling—into jail.

"It makes all the sense in the world, really. Wyoming royalty, and Martha paid for it," he said in an odd, thick voice, and when she turned, he was hunched over in tears. Something inside her broke watching him, and somehow just a palm on his forearm wasn't enough. She stepped over and enfolded him in her arms where he sat, his head hot against her chest. She would give anything for this board to free him from the prison in his mind he had inhabited alone the last few years.

He shouldn't have ever been involved in the investigation because his wife had been the victim precipitating the Murder Board. In Absaroka County, there had been no one else who could have possibly had the determination, interest, or willing to take the self-risk involved in putting it together. Even at this difficult moment, his grief was far preferable than resolving to take matters into his own hands, again. As she peered at the picture of "The Queen," she did a double-take.

"Walt, that can't be right…the evil mastermind is what, all of _seventeen_?"

"His photo may be the place marker, but he's not quite the end game," he said, voice still thick. "Carter might be the technological front, because as a minor he's under the radar—and he didn't inherit or lose the money. I'm betting the actual Queen is Graham, and we're about this close—" he pinched his thumb and forefinger together—"if we can financially link Carter transfers with Graham." He looked to the stack of documents. "We still have a lot of documents to go through, but I'm pretty sure we'll find it in there. It may be emails, numbered accounts, something putting them together."

"Walt," she said suddenly. "What about education accounts, like the judges' sons?"

He stared up at her, then at the pile of documents. "You're right. That's their M.O. That has to be it, and the proof is probably in there."

"Shit," she whispered, "the _whole_ family. Penny is in prison for what—20 years?"

"The whole family _except_ for," he said with emphasis, "_Welles_, who walked out of that cesspool and stayed far away."

The momentary adrenalin glow was fading, the fillip of success leading to more questions.

"But _why_, with their fortune?"

Walt, still hunched over, shook his head. "Maybe because reports of the growth of their fortune were greatly exaggerated, and that's why Penny did what she did. They got hurt in the '08 crash. Their financials all look like they took a serious hit."

"So how is Cady's Cameron Maddox linked into all this? I didn't know Maddox and the Van B's knew one another."

"Maddox is related to the wife of one of the judges. He has to be just a mule, transferring cash through Carter/Graham to his principals. He got a cut along the way. So many little cuts, laundering and re-laundering…"

"So if lots of people are getting small cuts, where's the casino money going? How did they expect to hide it after construction?"

Walt grimaced. "According to what I can piece together, most of the _investments_ are now secured somewhere in the Caiman Islands. There are cooked books everywhere showing the cash is there, but it can't be. It's been siphoned off to the judges and the Van Blarcoms."

"But the income from the casino was expected to offset the shortfalls and save Jacob from the deficiencies before they became noticeable?"

"That's the theory…I would love to confront Jacob, or have the Casino Board confront him to producing evidence of the money. I can't, of course…but I've thought maybe an anonymous tip…especially as the contractors are going to start submitting their billings as final construction begins. I'm guessing that even without an arrest, that Jacob Nighthorse is going to have some 'splainin' to do, since the casino is so far behind schedule." His lips were pulled back in an unpleasant grin.

Her arm gripped his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Walt. This is way more than we ever thought—"

"It was pretty much _what_ I thought, after finding out what Cassandra told Martha, about the Cheyenne graves. Even Hector somehow knew more was going on, and the evidence was in his Job Jar, which was why he was targeted and executed by David Ridges."

"Shit," she said again, with some heat, yet shivering a little as she remembered Hector's scalped head and dying last wish. "So, what now?"

"We finish, we put duplicate flash drives and documents in two separate bank boxes with other people's names on them, and we send a 3rd and 4th to the FBI and state respectively. They can counterbalance each other's investigations so that they don't just get put on hold."

"Wow. I've never been involved in an investigation this size. Whose names will the boxes under?"

He exhaled. "I'm not sure, yet. It just needs to not be _us._"

She went cold, because she realized that in this, he was still protecting her, that it was in case someone tried to eliminate them from the chain of evidence…They had both discussed upping their life insurance policies after everything that had happened, and wills to release the Murder Board documents to the press in the event of their untimely death.

"I'm leaning towards Henry for one of them."

"Good idea. What about Cady for the other?"

He fidgeted.

"Oh, got it, don't want to put her at risk, either."

He shrugged. "Maybe Ruby. She wants them hurt, after all."

"And we take down the board and get it back to the station."

"After I fix it up a little, but you've done a masterful job on writing it up, Vic."

"_We_ did. We're a _team_, Walt."

She stared down at him, where the tracks of tears still lay on his cheeks. Shit, he was still mourning Martha. It was not the time for the discussion of any form of more _personal_ teamwork. Not yet. She had been hoping since the divorce was final, but it was more that this needed to be put to bed before they put their personal lives into it.

"Let's finish this part and get it dismantled before morning. I want it to disappear before anyone gets wise to this final stage. We can go through what's left in little bits here. I'll take care of the repairs and bring it in."

"In this room, under the old sheet, it surely escaped any scrutiny. If anyone was watching the nights my truck's been out here, they'd think the Sheriff is diddling the deputy."

Walt winced and made a tsking sound with his tongue. "I hope the board escaped scrutiny for both our sakes, and that I didn't destroy your reputation in the process, because it was a good idea to set it up here."

"I'm glad we're pretty much done, though. It's still _cold_ back here, and it's almost summer!"

He stood up, contrite. "I'm sorry, Vic, I guess…I guess I've never noticed. Do you want a blanket?"

"What," she grinned, "you've never noticed that don't take my jacket off?"

"Maybe I don't notice a lot of things," he muttered, almost as though he was beginning to shake off the paralyzing effects of the Murder Board, as they began to double-check every document and link as they removed them. The word _meticulous_ rambled around in her head. It would have taken a staff of 20 to do something like this in Philly.

"Good-bye and good-riddance, Murder Board," she said under her breath, but regretted the closeness they had developed around each other during several months of intensive evenings together. Of course the hoped-for outcomes would be to someday provide justice for Martha, and maybe keep Walt from going after Jacob, the judges, Malachi, the Van Blarcoms, Cameron Maddox, and all those dirty in the entirety of it. She sighed, just a dozen people spread over three counties, but what a mess!

Almost summer…she had a thought.

"Walt?"

"Hmmm? He was slowly dismantling documents from the board after checking against the corresponding numbers in the document on her laptop.

"You know, Ruby's granddaughter Janine's getting married in June. June 27th. I just thought of it after I said summer."

"Oh, right. I remember the invitation."

"Would…would you want to go together? This will have gone out long before then."

That drew his attention. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? To go, I mean?"

"Would you have?"

He made a noise through his nose. "Probably not. I'd forgotten about it."

"Ruby won't let you forget about it." But now she was smiling. She told me," and she said it like Ruby had, kind of slyly, "Plus-ones are welcome!"

He ducked his head, but he was now sort of smiling. It was a definite improvement over the earlier tears.

"It might be a nice way to do something together without the whole town commenting."

"Oh, the whole town will comment."

She made a face.

"What do you typically wear to a wedding?" she asked, glad she had been able to change the topic sufficiently.

"Whatever Cady tells me to wear."

She brightened. "Good answer! So, are we on?"

"Did I just get asked out on a date?"

"Noooo…we were both invited. We're just going together, instead of separately."

"Well, okay, then," he said, and focused his attention back on the board.

She was _so_ glad the board was nearly done…


	7. Chapter 7

**Survival**

**Chapter 7**

**Less than Big Indians**

—**Four Months Ago—**

"And, just _why_ are we going on a cloak-and-dagger in Sheridan, in a county where going undercover for you means taking your star off, putting on shades or changing your hat or jacket?" She was in her own gold leather jacket, over a turtleneck and jeans. Most importantly, neither of them carried a sidearm, although she knew without doubt Walt would have his duty weapon and a little extra _something_ stashed away in some cranny of Omar's enormous truck. It was just how he was wired.

But it was that spring-summer beauty in the Bighorns, and the landscape was greening up for its quick surge and retreat. The Murder Board, which seemed to include everything but the kitchen sink and Lizzie on it (and she still withheld judgment on that; no doubt a link would appear sometime) had been sent out almost two months ago.

"Because if I told you about it, you wouldn't have come." Enigmatic, but all he'd revealed so far.

"So what's the plan?"

"Lunch, we're meeting a couple of guys."

"Snitches?

"Nope."

"Dealers?"

"Nope."

"Perps?"

"Nope."

She gave an exasperated sigh. "So are we billing time to the county, right now? Am I on duty?"

"Probably not. Consider this a favor to me." He looked over to her, a faint grin on his face, but tension there, too. The Murder Board was long gone, but she knew he'd been having endless phone discussions with higher mucky-mucks both State and Fed over it, and she knew why he was keeping her out of it. As Branch had once said, it could be dangerous to know where the bodies were buried.

To keep the phone conversations safer, Ferg's brother Mark had helped them run scans for bugs at the office several times, and multiple scans on all the office computers, including the laptops and their cell phones. Lately it had been hard to know where paranoia began and the rural Mayberry vibe ended. So far, the scans and physical checks hadn't found anything, but they were still hoping no one had known about the Murder Board, either. It was merely precautionary and common sense. Ruby was a little disconcerted about it all.

"Can't be too careful," Walt had told her. "We've had some sensitive information come through here in the last year." He had left it at that. Things had been quiet in Durant the last few weeks, so this little jaunt was a welcome diversion, albeit a mysterious one.

He was still watching for her to react.

"Like I wouldn't do you a favor? Okay, then of course I'll do it."

He glanced over again, lips pressed together, an inscrutable expression on his face. Regret? Fear? What the_ hell _was_ that? _she wondered_._

They drove up to a pleasant little café, nothing special. Vic thought maybe it was a poster child for the generic café of the year. It had that most dangerous testimony of all, "Fine Food," plastered in the window.

Inside, Walt scanned the room, and began directing her along, his large hand against the small of her back.

Two men sat in a booth near the back. The one facing her made her say, "Aw, _hell_, no!" and brace herself to turn around, but Walt's arm in her back, and his big body, blocked her way.

It was no other than her buddy, Special Agent Towson, FBI, whom she had punched out a couple of years ago. The other man turned around at her words, and he looked familiar but she couldn't place him. They were both wearing simple long-sleeved polo shirts with windbreakers. If she'd been a suspect, she would have smelled FBI from a mile off…and she didn't mean the Wyoming acronym used for Fucking Big Indians.

She pressed her lips together.

The men stood, and the one she couldn't place slid around with her buddy Towson.

"Thanks for coming, Walt," that man said and shook Walt's hand. He gave her a look like he was assessing his chances that he'd get it back, but thrust his hand out to her as well. She shook and released it. She had learned to give a firm handshake—in a household with four brothers, you _learned._ The man looked faintly relieved to have it back. She wondered if he'd been briefed on _The Holy Terror_ aspect of her past, or her proficiency at reverse wristlocks on miscreants.

"Not at all. I told you we'd hear you out." She took heart at his tone. Mild Walt was more terrifying in her mind than Threatening Walt.

"We would prefer to talk with her privately," said Towson, setting her hackles up.

"I'd rather we all understood each other," said Walt, perfectly pleasant, but shooting her a _behave_ look. As though she wouldn't if she were alone with Towson. Or the other guy. Well, he might be right, at that.

Other guy spoke. "Deputy Moretti, I'm Cliff Cly. I don't think we met, then, but Walt assisted me in a case down in Powder Junction a couple of years ago. My jaw is still sore."

"So," she said, smart-mouthed but unwilling to take any guff. "Sounds like you and Agent Towson have undergone similar treatments at our hands. Is this where we get suitably chastened and sent back to Absaroka with our tails between our legs?"

"_Vic_." It was Walt, a soft but low warning. He was saying, _Listen, don't speak. _If she had learned anything in three years, it was if Walt was listening, she should, too. So she listened.

"Agent Towson and I are here because we have been sifting through a body of remarkable documents which came into our offices a couple of months back."

She waited. Working with Walt, she had perfected that pleasant, polite look of apparent patience, while nothing could be further from the truth. The documents he mentioned had to be from the Murder Board, but…so _what_?

A way-too-smiley waitress with the perky tag "Betsy" came by with water and took their orders. The conversation halted until she was gone.

"Well, short version, we were both impressed with the quantity and organization of the material, the cross-references to support the links, and the strength of the conclusions reached. We figured you must've borrowed a team of deputies from another county, and a firm to help you put it together…"

She thought about the late, caffeine-laced nights where just Walt and she had slogged through that huge pile of documents, with Ferg cheering them on, bringing them even more from Mark's latest haul, about cold pizza and a colder, empty back room, where she'd held a big tough-guy sheriff against her as he cried over his lost love…

"…but the sheriff assures us there were only four people, two providing data collection and two sifting through everything to produce the documents we have."

She was still waiting. _Get to the point_, she thought.

"We are here today prepared to offer the creator of these documents a position."

"A _position_?" Inside she bubbled with hysterical laughter. "For _Walt_ and me?" Walt, after all, had put the byzantine puzzle together, she had just been his pipeline to the laptop.

Why wasn't Walt in his _I want to punch your lights out_, mode? She thought he'd be outraged, or at least reacting. Instead, when she looked to him, he looked grim and shuttered, and she thought with the paralyzing horror of realization, _oh, fuck, he's in the_ "_We've lost and hired deputies before"_ mode. Shit. The job offer wasn't for him and he didn't want to queer it for her. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Six months' training at the FBI facility in Quantico, then your own investigations division in DC. Very generous salary and perks, expense stipends." They proceeded on into great detail over the offer. All she felt was shock and pity. Shock they would ask, and pity that they were about to be let down in the very worst way. Would _fuck off_ perhaps be too abrupt_?_

She wondered if her face registered abject horror. Or funk. She looked down, as their lunch orders arrived. Betsy checked in and flew off to happier tables.

The FBI guys both began to devour theirs, telling an amusing story about a suspect who had hidden the valuable contents of a safe in his toilet tank with the water off, until his girlfriend had used initiative when she needed to use the toilet…

Meanwhile, Walt didn't touch her, wouldn't look at her, and didn't eat much of his, which said volumes to her. _He was afraid. He didn't want her to go, but he didn't want to get in the middle._ She had heard it all before, about her marriage. Yada yada yada. This was déjà vu.

Well, _fuck—_why did he not just_ say _that_? _But instead, as always, he said nothing.

Betsy arrived back in a few minutes to check on their food.

"I think the two of us would like boxes, please," she said, without consulting Walt. No use to waste good food that the FBI was no doubt paying for in the courting of her. She caught Walt's eyes. His lips were pressed together and he still wasn't eating. He finally shifted in his seat when the agents' mouths were full again.

"This is a pretty great honor, to be asked, Vic," Walt burst out finally, in what she thought of as his _calm and considering _voice. He used it to draw out suspects or reassure Horse in a storm. Well, this _was_ a storm—a shit-storm! That was her cue, though.

"And I thank you for your generous offer, gentlemen, although a great deal of the—_document—_is really the sheriff's work, and he's too modest to reveal that," she said, suddenly remembering manners her long-suffering mother had drilled into her as a sprout. She thought maybe she should use a line from Pride and Prejudice on how to reject an offer of marriage: that they did her a great honor, but there was no way she'd accept…something like they were _the last man on_ _Earth she could be prevailed upon to marry_ sort of rejection. Instead, she went silent.

"I've already chatted with Walt, and we know how he feels, but will you at least think about it?" asked Cliff Cly. Somewhere along the way, Cliff boy had tuned into the fact that she was ignoring Towson and had become the Team Towson spokesman. One grudge from the Terror doth a lifetime make. Doing absolutely nothing so that Walt would likely freeze to death above Tensleep had firmly placed Towson pretty high on the Moretti Shit List.

It hadn't been the high-tech FBI, but friend Omar's contributions to Walt's well-being which had saved him that time That and Air Omar were two of Omar's most redeeming qualities in Vic's mind, which did not place him on said Moretti Shit List, but he still remained firmly on the Don't Hit on Me list. There were days she almost appreciated him, just not when he made his plays.

"Yes. I'll think."

"You have time. Off the record, though, you should decide in the next few months, before the first arrests are made."

Her eyes went to Walt's, and they shared a tiny moment of triumph. That was what the Murder Board had been all about, to get a measure of justice for Martha.

"Okay."

Each of the men produced a card, handed them to Vic. They signaled for the check, and went up front to pay, leaving Walt and Vic alone in the booth with their lunches and two boxes. She quickly moved around to the other side where the FBI agents had been sitting, so she could look him in the eye.

"Walt, what the fuck was _that_?"

"It's an offer."

"I'm aware of that. You knew about this? Set me up?"

"I…knew you wouldn't listen without my cooperation."

"You think I _should_ listen? Are you trying to get rid of me? Honesty, Walt, no "getting in the middle" shit-lines this time."

A long moment, before, "No," he said, almost explosively. "I want you to stay, but you should at least have options. Everyone should have options."

She canted her head, like a dog which didn't understand a new command.

"What about you?"

"Me?" he didn't feign his surprise at the question.

"What. About. You. Your options. We talked a while back about you running again, resigning mid-term, and me being acting sheriff until the next election. Glass ceiling in Absaroka and all that."

"Yep."

"And you asked me to stay when I got my divorce papers."

"Yep."

"You held me after getting stitched up."

"Yep."

"But you haven't said anything since. Murder Board's done, and according to the FBI, a great success. You were kind of lukewarm about us just _arriving_ together to Janine's wedding, and that's still coming up. Maybe after the FBI offer today, I'm saying I don't know where I stand with you."

It was bold, but she was pushing him just a little, making him stand up for himself.

"My feelings haven't changed."

She heard Mr. Darcy in _Pride and Prejudice_ in her head again. _"My feelings for you haven't changed, if my presence is still adverse to you, then I will leave you be…"_

"Which feelings would those be?" she asked. In for a penny, in for a pound…Get it _out_ there. Towson and Cly could not even compete for last place, if he would just _tell _her_._

It was pulling teeth, twisting arms, gnashing of teeth…it was great glaciers grinding their way down to carve a valley, it was…

"I still want you to stay. If you're willing, I want to start seeing you, now that…some things have been resolved. I want you find a place to live better than the Dump."

"Dump?" She had no idea he had any notion where she was living.

"That trailer. That's my fault."

"_Your fault_? She had finally rented an old, winterized travel trailer to sleep at when she wasn't pulling night shifts at the station. It wasn't the Taj Majal, but it was clean.

"I'd like a chance."

She blinked. Had the glaciers in the valley just started to melt? The convo had definitely shifted into Twilight Zone territory. She blinked again.

"I'm not married anymore, but I'm still younger and your deputy."

She could almost feel him gathering himself to respond. "Married was a deal-breaker. I think I've made peace with the other two."

She couldn't help herself, she grinned. "You _think_, huh?

"I _have_ made peace with those."

"So, two offers today? My cup is overflowing."

"That wedding is only a couple of weeks away."

"Yep." She could play his game.

"Let's meet there. After that, let's test the waters for more."

More? _More?_

A pile of pulled teeth and twisted arms rose up before her. The great glaciers ground to a halt.

"Well, okay. I'm good with that."

And it was as simple as that. They left the café, boxes in hand.

"So, suit or Dockers for the wedding?"

"What?" he asked startled.

"What will Cady have you wearing?"

"Can I get back to you on that?"

She smiled. She already knew what she would be wearing. She hadn't watched him for three years for nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Survival**

**Chapter 8**

**Wedding Belle**

_**In Chapter 7, I had fun with Vic's old nemesis Towson, adding Walt's foe Cliff Cly from the books. I keep trying to weave elements from the books into the stories. I was surprised, though, no reviews mentioned my melting glaciers—there was more interest in what Vic was going to wear to the wedding—well that is merely another sliver from book canon. Er, also from the books, Walt has been known to wear a suit to weddings, so I am not out of canon to do so. **_

_**This one was fun to write…not really comedy, but some hopefully funny parts. Okay, when said and done, this chapter ended up over 5,000 words…I thought I hadn't been writing, but I guess it was just figuring out how to get there from here, and it took some time. I have now broken it into three separate chapters. So far, there are 17.**_

_**Lowly fan writer, own nothing, just having aforesaid fun. **_

—**Late June, Two Weeks after FBI Meet—**

Vic had taken pity upon his unwillingness to arrive together and said she would meet him there, but she hadn't arrived, yet, although it was early, and guests were still arriving. He hadn't been in the Lutheran church for a long time. The last event must have been with Martha well over ten years ago, since it wasn't her church. He wore his one summer suit with a shirt and tie. He wasn't sure Vic had ever seen him wear one, before. He'd told her "a tie," in order to let her know that (according to Cady) it was a formal (for him) affair. A set of less-strangling clothes lay folded in the Bullet, along with his duty weapon, cuffs, knife, extra ammo and the like, just in case. He wouldn't feel prepared for the day without them. Despite the fact that the Ferg was on call and slated for a 24-hour shift if need be, he still felt he had to be ready for back-up if necessary. Vic wasn't on the duty roster at all, tonight. He hoped it would be a quiet one, for all their sakes.

At least the weather had cooperated for Janine. It was a mild June afternoon, just teasing the 80 degree mark. It did not bear the stinkin' hot summer nor ominous thunderstorm which marked Absaroka's proximity to the Bighorns at a minute's notice. The reception was set adjacent to the church in large tents. Already caterers were scattered like ants, and a band had set up and was tuning. The reception might adjourn to the Pony if the weather changed suddenly, or if it went too late in the night, but for now, it looked promising. Durant was a town which typically rolled up its sidewalks pretty early, which is why this was the social event for the week, if not the month. Later in the summer there was a festival the town dressed up for, but for now, the place to be was this wedding.

An interesting looking young man covered with tattoos and with several rings in nose and eyebrows (Walt was mildly amused by these; he preferred that fashion statement in contrary bulls' noses) had approached him when he had first arrived.

"We hear you play keyboards," the young guy said. "Would you consider playing a couple of boogie-woogie pieces with us, later? Change of pace, you know, for the older set?"

He was more than a little surprised by the question, and cringed a little at the reference to the 'older set.' Vic had never heard him play, never said anything about it, and he wasn't sure if it would make him seem _older_ in her eyes. He sure didn't _feel_ old today, he felt like a teenager going to prom.

But he was flattered; he had played in high school, later in the military at the Boy Howdy Beaucoup, and over the years for Henry and at special events. He had stopped completely after Martha's death. For him, the music had just _gone away_ for a long time after she died.

The peculiar thing was, he had just started practicing again a couple of days after the meet with the FBI. Somehow, with the Murder Board gone, learning that it seemed to be working, and the discussion with Vic in the café, his heart had felt a little lighter ever since their trip back from Sheridan. The lingering darkness around his vision had receded. He attributed some of it to anticipation of something gradually developing with Vic, or maybe it was just time ticking along after Martha's death and he was finally coming out of the grief coma which had enveloped him for so long, or maybe it was _both_.

It might also have something to do with the wedding. He used to play at receptions, especially when they were held at the Pony, where Henry kept an upright tuned just for him. After Martha's death, when he did not resume playing after almost a year, Henry had quietly moved the piano to his storeroom. Henry still had it in there, though, Walt had seen it when he and Henry cooked up more than breakfast in his kitchen—the scheme to exhume Miller Beck's body. Presumably Henry had kept the piano in hopes of the return of his music along with happier days, or maybe Henry just didn't want to have to move it anymore. Either way, he might just help Henry move it back into the bar again…

Anyway, he had told the young man. "Are you sure? I'm not positive Janine…"

The young man smiled through the tattoos and rings. "Janine asked, _specifically_. I'm her brother-in-law-to-be. Sal Johnson."

"Oh. Well, in that case…" He had a sneaking suspicion one Ruby Reynolds was behind Janine's _specific request_.

Not only that, he had kind of hoped to be hanging out with Vic throughout the evening, but…

Even as he held up a stone-faced corner of the Lutheran Church with one shoulder, the Absaroka County white Dodge pickup finally pulled up in the parking lot. When she slid out, she took his breath away—literally, in one of his favorite combinations, a form-fitting sundress in a striking turquoise and yellow western plaid print—he would swear he had once had a _shirt _with that same plaid—and were those—_white cowboy boots_? With _fringe? _How did she know that was his favorite? He doubted Cady had spilled, and felt guilty, Vic must have caught him watching women in similar outfits at some point. Maybe in Odin? Just driving down the street? He'd never said anything…and neither had she. Well, once in a while she'd make crude comments like, "It's rude to stare while your tongue is hanging out," or "If you don't stop that, it's going to fall off," but he'd never thought anything of it. She teased him all the time about looking, but he'd teased her back here and there. She'd once said about her own way of appreciating guys, like how tight their jeans were, with, "I'm married, not fucking _blind_." The irony way, now that she was not married and could look her fill, he rarely caught her doing that. It was another piece of the puzzle that was uniquely _her_.

The dress had narrow plaid straps and was trimmed in lace, um, what would Martha have called it? _Eyelet_. That was it, white fabric with round holes in it. It had a summery, retro feel to it which in turn _also_ made him feel younger.

She looked beautiful, hair loose and swinging, with several small braids woven into it, pieces of turquoise hanging from her ears and a matching piece on a silver chain around her neck…and absolutely _western_. Not _dude western_, but more like a ranch girl. Maybe the term would be _home-girl_, in Philly vernacular?

She also looked less harried, and happier than he'd seen her in a long while, if ever. She saw him, she gave him a little wave with a smile which reached her eyes, and headed in his direction, hips swinging. No man-walking, there. Today, she looked the epitome of girly, as opposite to his deputy as could be. She also looked absurdly _young_, but for some silly reason, today that also made him feel younger.

He thought about the events of the last year—the Connally shooting, the Murder Board, her offer from the FBI. He was asking himself now, what was he waiting for? The litany too young, too married which had kept that protective force field around him just seemed to have evaporated into the ether, and all that was happening for him was that he was getting older, edging closer to retirement, and she looked…the young people said it…_hot_.

Well, she was still his deputy, but he had told her he'd made peace with that. There were things they could do about that if it re-emerged as a problem in his mind. He really didn't think it would now, based on feelings which had come long before the chaos around Chance Gilbert, that he simply missed having her around every day she wasn't out with him. He tried to be fair about the roster and took the less-experienced ones into the field whenever possible, but for the most serious cases, he wanted _her _with him.

"Hey, cowboy," she said, with what looked like an almost shy smile, not the more typical brazen flirting he had seen from her with other men.

He didn't touch or hug her, just drank her in.

"Hey."

"You clean up pretty good for a cowboy, sheriff."

"You look—beautiful." He'd never been good with the compliments.

Her face brightened with another smile. She gave his cheek an experimental touch.

"Baby-soft! Maybe this occasion called for it, but mental post-it for future reference, you don't ever have to do that for me. I like you—you."

He smiled back. He was afraid if he said anything more on the subject, all his feelings would spill out, and there was still an event to attend.

"I'll file that for future reference."

"Ready to go in?" she asked.

"You bet."

"So, does the Demure Sheriff of Absaroka County give a lady his arm, hold her hand, or just escort her in to an event?"

"Come on. We'll miss the event if we don't get a move on." He moved to lay a hand at her back as he often did, and they entered the church together. He pointed to a couple of empty seats in the middle, and they squeezed their way in.

The wedding was well-attended, simple, but being Lutheran, did offer a longer service. He didn't mind, as long as she was by his side.

As a radiant Janine was being whisked down the aisle and people stood, Walt bumped Vic's elbow. He just wanted to kick in and make sure he wasn't dreaming. He also wondered what she thought of weddings. They had never talked about hers, or about his, for that matter.

He hoped at some time in the near future, there would be occasion, if not reason, for that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Survival**

**Reception**

**Chapter 9**

The reception was a beehive of activity. There were probably one hundred and fifty people there, and what seemed like a large catering staff as well.

He cleared his throat. "Will you save a dance for me? Preferably a slower one?"

She gave him a private smile. "Of course."

"Maybe some time alone, later?"

Now the smile softened, searching. "Maybe. Will we _aim to misbehave_?"

He had heard that somewhere before.

"You got me."

"Show on TV called Firefly. Didn't make it a season. Some really good writing."

"Oh. I like the notion, though."

The brilliant smile was back. "Yeah, me, too. Fucking says it all."

The large tent was set up with tables, and a smaller area for dancing at one end. He escorted her to a table. He knew the prettiest girl in the, er, tent was with him—and then Cady came up. She was turned out impeccably in a blue-print silk blouse and navy skirt, which contrasted nicely with her hair. She was as equally beautiful in his eyes, but in that special way which fathers cherish.

"Hi, Dad! Don't you both look nice!"

"Thanks—so do you, Punk."

"Gonna get some serious exercise out there, and eat a bunch. Ruby says to remind you you're going to play at least a couple of songs."

Vic looked to him questioningly. He jerked his head in acknowledgment.

There were the inevitable announcements, spoons on glasses for kisses, Best Man speech, the cake cutting, lots of eating, and about dusk—the band began to play a _waltz_ of all things. It was the kickoff of the dancing, the Dad and daughter waltz. Janine and her dad went to the floor together. He gauged his chances at getting another waltz later, and acted immediately.

"I think I could manage this," Walt said, watching several couples who were waltzing around. "Is too old-fashioned for you?"

She snorted and gave him a troubled look. "Nooo," she said, as though she was a little offended to be asked that.

She however, performed a very correct waltz as they might teach at dancing school, standing straight, their bodies not touching except where his hands touched hers. It made him wonder if she ever had waltzed outside of lessons. He had thought, maybe even hoped, that she might interpret it as more of a slow dance. Their conversation continued during the dance.

"What will you be playing?"

"Uh—the usual, boogie-woogie."

"Really?" she asked. "Why?"

"It's what I like," he confessed, but now worried that she wouldn't.

"I had no idea! Well, as you've said, you're full of surprises."

He could only think, no, she really _had _an idea_… _She had been the only one able to 'read' him, for a long time, maybe _any _time…Even Martha had not, really…

The waltz ended and he escorted her back to their table, only to see Omar Rhoades approaching. Walt found himself scowling, not happy about that at all. Omar had a look like he'd already celebrated with a few whiskeys.

"Vicky!" he shouted, as though cornering her in the woods. "Would you do me the honor of the next dance?"

Walt couldn't very well say anything. He'd made no claims on her. Omar led her away triumphantly.

Ruby sat down next to him. She gave him a _look_.

"Might be good timing for some boogie-woogie," she said nonchalantly.

He stared at her. "Am I that transparent?"

"And then some. Sal's ready and waiting, if you are."

"I guess I am, then."

"Also, I switched up a few things. Lucian's doing dispatch for a while this evening so Ferg can have some time here."

"Glad Ferg can have part of the evening, anyway. He'd miss the dancing. Lucian would only bellyache about the dog and pony show, and maybe make a scene."

He stood up, glad to have something to do with his hands besides beating Omar to a pulp. He still hadn't forgiven him for getting Vic shot with the tranquilizer and Henry hurt in the elk trap, but his friend was still that, a good friend, which is why he said nothing. He figured Vic would set Omar straight if he crossed any lines.

The piano was a keyboard, and he began to navigate it experimentally, but it was forgiving and played easy. He started with a couple of wedding classics Sal had suggested. By the end of the third tune he signaled Sal, and began pounding out some Fats Waller.

Still on the dance floor with Vic, Omar looked startled, but apparently took up the challenge, tugging Vic back into his lead. She, on the other hand, appeared fascinated by her boss' transformation into a Rock Star of sorts on the stage, but got into the spirit of things. Cady was dancing with Ferg. Walt wasn't sure when he'd arrived, but Walt tried to do justice to the tune so he and Cady could enjoy the ride.

He made the bridge and was going back into the melody, when an uncomfortably familiar form sat next to him. He could smell the familiar perfume without looking at her.

"I've forgiven you," said Lizzie as she scooted closer on his right, hair carefully styled in more elaborate braids than Vic's, wearing a spectacular southwestern outfit complete with the exquisite Navajo needlepoint jewelry she favored. She looked good, but… "I knew you were going through a lot when Cady got hurt. You had the election and everything, besides, and then later, the awful thing about your wife..."

He didn't break concentration and began to bring the tune home…

"I can see you brought the JV tonight. If you get tired of that, we were good together, Walt. If you want more, you know where to find it."

He did want _it_, but _it_ wasn't with Lizzie. He finished with a flourish.

And then Ruby was moving toward him, waving her phone.

"Lucian's got a call from Doug Framer. His stud hog, his foundation stock, has disappeared."

Walt pursed his lips. Technically, it should be Ferg who went, but Lizzie had effectively killed his interest in the keyboards, and the music had switched to something slow and sultry, and Vic was now dancing with—_Branch_? No, that would definitely not do. Branch was still in therapy, and as far as he knew, not dating anyone, but neither were attached, and he had a sinking feeling about the rest of the evening following suit with a string of Vic-admirers. He didn't think but a moment about it—he'd rather leave than watch that transpire.

"I'll take care of it," he said gruffly, his earlier delight in the evening having abruptly abated, with seeing Vic swarmed over, the demands on him to play and make nice with his constituents and the increasingly tight necktie.

He went directly to the Bronco, grabbed his bag and changed in the Mens' room in the church. He saw only a couple of men he didn't know. The Johnson groom's family, probably. In deference to the warm evening, he left his jacket there, and pinned his star to his shirt. His hat was, of course, in the truck, he could add that on his way.

In his comfortable clothes, began to make his way to the other side of the tent, to let Vic know he was going. He heard a noise to the side of him, and there was Vic, holding a parasol-ed drink, shouldering her way through the crowd in her best law enforcement fashion, a statement in itself, since her sundress rode up her legs and her boots weren't as effective as duty boots. Face a little flushed from the exercise, the heat, or the alcohol, he didn't know, or care. She was _breathtaking._

"Walt! What's wrong? Where are you going?"

"Dispatch, Framer farm. His stud hog has disappeared."

"Really? A livestock call—after hours? I thought—I thought we might have some time together—_later_." Her eyes bored into his, the tarnished gold glittering reflecting the fairy lights hung in the tent. "Isn't Ferg on duty, tonight?"

"Ruby rearranged a couple of things so Ferg could spend some time here. I'll take the call."

"But, _why_? Did I do something wrong?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "I thought…_later_…"

"I do. Want to spend time together. This just doesn't seem to be the time, or the place."

She watched him, considering. He got the feeling she always evaluated as much of what he _did_ _not _say as much of what he _did _say. Then, "Well, okay. I can change. I have everything in my truck."

"No time, he's worried that someone's made off with the hog. I'm leaving now."

"Fuck it, fuck this," she said, depositing her drink on a nearby table. "I'll come with you," she said, tugging on his hand. "It will undoubtedly be more fun than staying here without you and getting hit on all evening."

His heart beat a little faster at the first part of _that_ pronouncement. Both parts, really. He'd rather have her company than imagine her being vied for all evening by a bevy of suitors.

When they got to the trucks, she hauled her Go Bag from hers and dropped it into the backseat of the Bronco. "Just in case, for later," she explained. She clambered into the Bronco. The little white boots had better purchase than the stilettos she had worn for her divorce party a few months back.

"Out of uniform and unarmed, Deputy."

"Not exactly unarmed…" She turned, grabbed for her Go Bag, and unzipped it. She had her duty belt with her, including the Glock, unloaded and safety on. "You sure you don't want me to change in the backseat? It'll just take me a couple of minutes."

"Could—you just stay as you are but keep me company? I sure like you looking like this. Besides, it's probably a false alarm, or the hog is asleep or just wandering around."

"Well…okay. If you don't think the county will cite me for inappropriate attire on duty."

"I'd be the one citing you, anyway, and as far as I'm concerned, you aren't on duty."

"Okay," she said, but he could tell she was still reluctant.

"Tell you what," he said, "if we get there, and it warrants it, you can change in the backseat."

"It's not as easy as when you change clothes—my bra's in my bag—this sundress has a built-in support. I'll have to wriggle in and out for both of them. It'll take me a few minutes."

He couldn't answer that, mouth momentarily dry. _Lucky sundress_, his traitorous body thought…_lucky bra…_

At least the ligature-producing tie was off, and he could sneak his fill of glances without every man in Durant ogling her. As the Bronco ate up the miles, he enjoyed the view to his right, hoping there might be more to see later in the evening.

She revealed a bandana full of treats she had filched from the reception, and fished bottles of water from the backseat. The remaining possibility of a _later_ was still worth anticipation, even weighed against the unexpected duty call.


	10. Chapter 10

**Survival**

**Chapter 10**

**Hog Wallowing**

_**This is the third installment of Wedding Belle, which got so longgg. Would love reviews! I write angst better than funny, and envy the comedic talents in this group of authors.**_

They had just made the turnoff to the farm when Walt brought the Bronco to a lurching stop in the dark. He put the brights on for a moment, and pointed into the darkness.

"Did you see that?"

"What?" Vic asked, peering out.

He was pretty sure the truck lights had caught something moving on the hillside near them in the shadows.

"Not sure. I'm going to check it out," he said, grabbing his jacket from the backseatk then unbuckling, and unlocking his rifle from the console. As he stepped out, he could hear a faint repetitive shrieking, which sounded to him like it could be a hog in distress. Since the call had been about a hog, this might be promising.

"Walt! Be careful!

"It'll be all right."

"Knowing our luck, it's probably either coyotes or pig rustlers. Wait just a sec, I'm coming with you."

She slid out of the truck, grabbing her duty belt from the backseat, fastening it around her middle. She efficiently loaded her Glock, clicked off the safety, and added it to her holster. It was definitely a different fashion look for her, but thought he might enjoy a private encore showing later, at that. Sort of Charlie's Angels meets Annie Oakley…

He pulled the Mag-lite out of his jacket pocket, climbed the rise and they both circled around to where he had seen the movement from the road.

"Over there," he pointed with his rifle.

They approached from different angles and converged on…

A large mound apparently struggling, but they couldn't see what. It appeared to be struggling against itself. There were definite unhappy snuffly and shrieking sounds.

"Is it the hog? Did he get attacked or break a leg or something?" she asked from the darkness near him.

"Dunno, yet. Let's get a little closer."

As they did, he could confirm that it was indeed a hog, struggling in what appeared to be a deceptively dry mud-bed. The beast must be somewhere in the neighborhood of 400 pounds, or bigger, he couldn't see the whole thing…huge and potentially lethal if riled. The hog didn't seem able to pull itself out, though.

Illumination hit: he had seen it a few times before, it was a soap-hole, a bog of expanding clay called bentonite which appeared dry to the touch but held a massive quantity of water. Dependent on the depth of the bentonite bed, it could be as effective as quicksand at swallowing unsuspecting wildlife—including the occasional ranch hand. This one was hog-sized, and also smelled to high heaven, a composite of clay and hog manure, most likely, if this guy had been here a while. He had thought Vic's Philly sensibilities might be offended by the overpowering stench if they went up to the hog-farm, but this might not be much better in the end.

"What the fuck is wrong with him?" she asked. He realized she must have never before seen one of the legendary soap-holes of Absaroka County.

"He's stuck, most likely. It's a slick mess in there, and full of his own muck as well. I guess…we try to get him out, but don't get in there, yourself. It's like quicksand, sucks you in. The more upset he gets, the more he…defecates, and…"

"Whoa. Poor pig. Hot mess doesn't begin to describe it."

"Yep, and I will make a bet this is Doug Framer's lost foundation stock."

"How did he get out here?"

"How does any hog go missing? Probably went under the fence or got out an open gate," said Walt, as he calculated what he might have with him in the Bronco to use to rescue the hog.

"Should we get to the farm and bring back Framer and some equipment?"

He was evaluating how far the hog had sunk into the muck. He had not been exaggerating about the quicksand effects. "May not be time…I have a shovel and blanket…"

"Can you rope him?" She had asked him that about once a month, after seeing what he could do with a rope. It gave him a curious sense of pride that she had such confidence in him. He was also willing to give personal demonstrations if that ever became a possibility…

"Nope. Hogs have no necks, and I can't get anything around him, his trotters are underneath the mud."

"Could we maybe shovel him over to the edge, get him on his side and drag him out?"

It was not a bad idea, but she sure wasn't dressed for it.

"I'll try that—but let's get the rope, in case I slip in or something. He doesn't have anything dry to stop against in all that mud."

"I can help—"

"Just stay out here, you can help if we can roll him to the blanket."

"Okay…" she said, but reluctantly. "But why don't I call Framer and have him come down here with a couple of extra hands? The Bronco is pretty noticeable to mark the location."

"Okay," he said reluctantly, but he was afraid by the time Framer got there, the hog might sink completely below the surface and drown. "At least if we get him out by the time he gets here, Doug can lock him back in his pen."

"Okay…" she said again, and called Framer with the number from the post-it Ruby had given Walt at the wedding.

"All I'm getting is a fucking voice-mail," she called over. "He must be out looking for him."

He dropped his jacket in the front seat, and she added her duty belt to that pile. He foraged in the back of the Bronco and brought back the shovel, the blanket, and some 2x6s he had bought for the cabin and forgotten about until now. At least his jacket and hat were safe inside against what he was afraid he'd encounter getting the beast out.

He had one other idea, roared the Bronco to life and carefully navigated it up nearer the bog. He attached the rope to the bumper, and slung it over the rise for their personal safety, not for that of the hog.

"So, you're going for that classic comfort food, a fucking pig in a blanket?" she snickered once as he positioned the blanket, but after seeing him maneuvering the wood, dropped the sarcasm and edged carefully around, again offering again to help.

"Okay. Let me try to get a couple of pieces of wood under him for leverage, and we'll use the other two for levers. I'll try and roll him."

"Isn't he too big for you alone, Walt? Jeez, isn't he like a bazillion pounds or something?"

"That's what leverage is," he said grinning, but wasn't entirely sure he could manage it alone, _or_ with her help. The hog was maybe pushing 500 pounds, although there was no way to tell with him partially submerged.

A half-hour later, Framer was still not there. He hadn't answered Vic's second phone call and she had left another message. Her cussing had intensified after the second call.

Walt, however, had become filthy and sweating in the mild summer evening. He thought he probably looked and smelled as bad as the pig, which, after prodigious squealing and thrashing, he had finally stabilized with the 2 x 6s. He had revised his estimate about the blanket and didn't want to use it. His _Wyoming_ sensibilities wouldn't stand that much stench heading home.

He had finally demurred to her offer of help, but time was of the essence, before the hog pushed the boards away in his sruggles.

"Okay, you take one, I'll take the other," he said, gesturing to the 2 x 6s, "and we'll roll him to his feet on the other side of the hole."

"Okay," said Vic, in a very low, worried voice. Hardened felons rarely heard that voice. _He_ had rarely heard that voice. It held…_fear_ in it. He tried not to laugh, although it was possible the hog would not display suitable gratitude in return for its rescue. They could be ornery buggers, but he didn't want to have to shoot it if at all possible. He did not discuss those possibilities with her, though.

"One, two, and…HEAVE!" he said. The technique worked, the pig did sort of shift, flip and landed gracelessly on his right side outside the soap-hole, assisted by both the physics of the levers and lubrication (much of it self-produced.) Unfortunately, their feet slipped and tangled with each other as the 2x6s slid into the soap-hole, and they slid to the ground. The hog, already in a frenzy, scrambled to his feet and then—hooves solidly under him once more—shook himself like a dog, completely covering both of them in that lovely perfumed clay and manure concoction he had been wearing. They struggled to their feet in dismay. Just above one hoof, a tangle of wire trailed. Walt pursed his lips, he wasn't about to engage with the already stressed hog to try and remove it.

Doug Framer and another man clambered up the rise just in time to see the emerging filth spectacle followed by the floor show to follow, an impromptu stampede. The hog was definitely twitchy, no doubt spooked by its ordeal. It put its head down and shook it slowly.

Walt, who had been around pigs as a kid, caught the warning signs. "Be careful, Vic, he might ch—"

The hog, sensing captivity was imminent, made an impressive and quick u-turn. He scrambled past Vic, knocking her over again in the process, and Walt heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric as he sped by. Vic lay on her back, breathing hard, and Walt wondered if the pig had knocked the wind out of her. He ruefully thought of the report he must write on this call, stating _officer down_, with a description of the suspect, and tried not to laugh.

He gave her a hand to sit up. She stuck her lower lip out and blew upward, fanning the straggling hair on her face while she caught her breath. She finally struggled to her feet as the second man went after the stud pig, calling after it, 'Florian! Florian!" The hog seemed to be answering with squeals becoming more distant by the second.

Meanwhile, Doug Framer just stood there, staring at Vic. Framer cleared his throat and after a minute asked, "You okay, Sheriff?" but his appreciative eyes were still on Vic, which made his own eyes shift to her and take immediate action. Walt stepped in front of her, gently spun her around, and turned back to Framer.

"Walt, what the f…!" she said, voice a little shaky, but to him it was obvious she hadn't yet realized her dress was split raggedly down the middle, from neckline to below the waistband of surprisingly adorable floral bikini panties. It was quite a show for Framer, well, and for himself. He could see small raw contusions and several red places running from her neck to belly which might resolve to bruising before the night was over. "And who's _Florian_?" she grated out.

To Vic Walt said: "Florian apparently caused your, er, wardrobe malfunction. He is Mr. Framer's stud hog which we just rescued." At that, she looked down and apparently saw the state of her undress.

To Framer Walt said: "We're okay," but you don't want to hear what my deputy's about to say for the next, say, five to ten minutes. We got your hog out of the soap-hole, which you might want to fence off to prevent this from happening again with other stock. By the way, he's got some barbed wire attached to his left front hoof and may need medical attention. You will also want to look to your pens and figure out how he managed to get free."

"We missed your calls because we've been out mending the fence, couldn't figure out what happened at first, until we found missing a strip of barbed wire. We think it rusted out and gave way." He was sort of craning his neck to see if he could sneak another peek at Vic, who beneath his hands, Walt could feel seething.

"Well, go get him!" said Walt, now a little testy.

Framer must have heard the tenor of his Sheriff Voice because he went after his man and hog, while Walt kept Vic turned toward the dappled shadows. She let fly invective which both impressed and appalled him. No one had ever told him he could learn new words at his advanced age.

Framer and his hired man returned shortly and moved smartly past, guiding the hog with switches. Florian had stopped squealing and was just making little snuffles as the men shook a container of what must be some kind of hog manna in front of his snout to encourage his cooperation.

Walt continued shielding Vic with his body until they were gone over the rise.

He would have taken his shirt off, but it wasn't fit to put around her. He went to retrieve the unused blanket, and came back to drape it around her.

"Fuck it, Walt! I don't want to wear that, only fucking corpses get wrapped in it!"

"Dead people and deputies whose dresses get ripped stem to stern."

"So, why didn't you tell me ahead the monster fucker might charge? My experience with pigs is pretty limited, Walt, Pumba from Lion King, and a passing acquaintance at the breakfast table. If I had my way, that guy would be _bacon_…"

He just gave her a look. She ducked her head, bit her lip, and reluctantly let him wrap it around her, but he went over the rise to the truck, fished out her duty shirt, and brought it back.

The braids in her hair had come loose and her hair straggled every which way. She had whorls of the suspicious mud-like substance, smudges, and scratches maybe from the wire from neck to belly, also couple of marks which might turn into bruises where the hog's hooves had clipped her, her legs and feet were coated with the substance, and the odor…but he thought she had never looked more beautiful to him. They were a team, and they had prevailed. Again.

Unfortunately, he knew he didn't smell and probably didn't look any better. He hoped there wouldn't be any more hog wallow crime sprees in their near future.

He handed her the shirt without comment, but helped her thread her arms into the sleeves and button it when she seemed to be fumbling with them.

He was going to spread what Vic called _the dead guy blanket _over the seat as soon as they got back to the Bronco. He suspected everything both of them were wearing should go directly into the trash can when they got home. He wasn't sure he could save his own boots, or whether he should even try. Damn, and they were his favorites…

Good thing he had changed out of his suit; Cady would not have been pleased. She had bought it for him after Martha died, to have one summer outfit to contrast with the black suit she had bought him but he'd never worn for Martha's funeral, because Martha had never gotten one. He trucked it out faithfully for funerals, since, just because Cady had bought it. The summer suit had only been worn twice, and was safely in his bag in the Bronco, along with the accompanying dress shoes and socks.

But Vic still hadn't moved from the edge of the soap-hole, where she'd stood since her dousing, even well after the men had left. She was quiet now, which worried him more than when she had run her mouth. He remained near her, patiently waiting, but to his horror and amazement, her bottom lip trembled.

"Oh, Walt," she sniffed, and his mouth dropped open. His deputy was_ crying… _"my pretty new boots, and the dress Ruby helped me make." He knew he would be dead meat if he mentioned he had not been upset to see the sundress ripped down the middle, including his enjoyment of the released cleavage behind it, although he acknowledged there had been the accompanying relief that she had not been badly hurt in the wildly thrashing hooves or trailing wire during the brief stampede. Her duty shirt was now respectably buttoned.

He gave in, and drew her firmly to his chest, both amazed and dismayed that his tough-as-nails deputy was having a _girl moment._

"I'll buy you some new boots," he said gravely, "since _Florian_ ruined them on company time. You can wear them just for me if there aren't any more weddings for a while," he offered generously. "Besides," he added, "I'm not exactly turned out pretty or smelling like a rose, either at the moment. Is this where I say, _it's not the years, it's the mileage_?"

She snuffled softly into his chest. "That's from Indiana Jones. I didn't know you _knew_ that one. There's sometimes, when the light's on your eyes, you—you almost look a little like him."

"Huh," he huffed, but he took it as a compliment. Of course, the actor who had played Jones was probably twenty years older than him. Maybe it _wasn't_ a compliment? But he'd take it, and as a botched evening went, at least at the end of it, he would be able to say he'd left with the girl. Twice, really, if you counted both the reception and from the erstwhile crime scene. He wondered idly if he should get a warrant for the soap-hole for assault, with Florian as the accessory? After all, he'd had an officer down during the operation.

She said very little all the way back to town, just shivering occasionally as the cool summer night air turned sharp over her mud-encrusted self. He kept the windows cracked so they didn't expire from the stench. He knew she needed a hot shower, garbage bags to deposit everything in, maybe _another_ hot shower, some salve on the contusions, and then sleep. So did he.

She'd touched his cheek with her palm when he offered to come in to help her with the clean up. "Not tonight. Soon." It seemed to be as much as she could manage at the moment.

So it wasn't to be an evening for _laters_. He reluctantly dropped her off at her dinky trailer. He didn't like her living in it because he had hoped she would choose to stay with _him_, but he had been too cowardly to say so, the moment had passed, and she had chosen _it _in the breach. He would always prefer to take her home with him if given a choice, but it was not to be that night.

If you counted it as an evening in her company and not in the company of other men, though, he counted it as a qualified success. He had a feeling if he told Cady or Henry about it, though, that they would not deem it that, and would proceed to give him a difficult time about how he had handled, or _mis-_handled the social event of the summer. From prom queen to pigsty…sort of a Cinderella in reverse, well, yeah, in that department, poor Vic.

Still…it was probably a tell to both Cady and Henry that he would rather be out pig-wrestling in the dark than sitting stewing while she danced with the unmarried _and_ married men of Absaroka…

He groaned inwardly. The pork-related references were going to be _epic_ at the office for the next week or so…


	11. Chapter 11

**Survival**

**Chapter 9**

**Laundry Day**

It was Sunday. The wedding reception had been an unqualified success, despite the early departure of the Sheriff and one of his deputies. The consequences of the stud hog elopement and subsequent rescue from the soap-hole were long past, pending some paperwork issues on Monday. He could have gone in and gotten them wrapped up that morning, but it was a beautiful summer day, and he had chores at home.

He went down to the lean-to, fed Horse and spent some time with her, slipping her an apple he had appropriated from Henry the day before, loving her whiskery appreciation of it. After straightening up the kitchen, he washed his hands and played for a while. The night before had reminded him of tunes he hadn't played for a long time, but today, everything came out as blues. He scowled. It hadn't been exactly a _bad_ time, after all, he and Vic had resolved the case, but every time he thought of taking her to her trailer, he felt unfulfilled and frustrated. Well, there was one way he had developed long ago to cure _that._

He spent about a half hour chopping wood, which served two purposes, if you counted that he couldn't stop thinking about Vic, both how she'd looked at the wedding, and then with her summery dress split down the middle, her uniform shirt barely buttoned, covered from face to feet in bentonite clay and hog shit courtesy of Florian, Doug Framer's stud hog.

And if Vic didn't inspire him enough, it was all about the wood—if he started this early, in late June, by October, his whole back porch would be loaded with dry wood for the winter to keep him—of if he was very lucky—_them_ warm. When he ran out of available logs, a squeaky hinge drew his attention, then the need to tighten the bolts on his shower head. He finally ran out of the small things, and thought about going back down to Horse for an early-morning ride, but the cabin needed some straightening, and he needed to change sheets and do laundry for the week. He had kind of put those things off the Sunday before, and was out of, among other things, clean underwear.

When Martha had been alive, he had never thought twice about laundry, or making anything clean or pressed. They had just mysteriously appeared in his closet or drawers, like the presence of an invisible laundry fairy. Now that he did everything himself, sometimes the laundry piled up and it never made it back into his dresser, just lay in a pile on his chair to root through and find something presentable to wear. A few months ago the pump on the washing machine had flooded the utility room behind the kitchen, and after swabbing the decks (literally) and draining the machine, he had let it be. He knew a costly pump meant the machine likely needed to be replaced, but he never got around to it. Martha had liked to hang everything outside in nice weather, which made it smell wonderful, but he preferred to just put everything in the dryer. Without the washer working, the dryer wasn't getting any use, nor was the clothesline.

He knew he almost always looked rumpled these days. Martha would never let him go out grizzled or rumpled. She made sure he always had plenty of razor blades and ironed knife-pleats in everything from his shirts to his underwear commensurate with the county position. He just considered it a prerogative of his age and duration of his position that he could now do as he pleased, but the wedding the day before had certainly made him want to step his game up a little. There had been some serious competition in all age categories, and Vic was one of the few single women of her age and qualifications in the area.

Vic had been Queen Bee until the call came in, and as such, had not missed a dance or attention from any of the single men in the county who attended, and more than a few of the married ones. He had wondered if he should have words with any of the married ones, but decided against it. He knew Vic's views on married men, and that she could handle herself with almost any of them. Still, he knew until he made some sort of declaration or statement, that she would be vulnerable to them. It made for a quandary. It had taken more than three years to get this far, to contemplate a relationship with her, so it was no surprise the steep grade of the last ascent would be the most difficult.

This morning, he wanted her quite desperately, missed domestic mornings like this at the cabin for coffee or just hanging out together, but he could not reveal that to her without, well, feeling _desperate_. He didn't want her to be with him out of pity for his loneliness, his age, or for his power in the county. He wanted her to just want_ him_.

He debated on the laundry. In the end, he wadded it into a garbage bag, with a couple of baskets to in which to sort the clean laundry. The bottle of detergent had a few loads left, and he took a couple of dryer sheets. He could stop at the convenience store and get quarters.

He prepared for it almost as carefully as he cleaned his weapons. It was time to assault the laundromat.

When he pulled up to the laundromat at 8 am in the morning after stopping for change, there was no one there, which suited him fine. He was wearing, in deference to everything that needed washing, old sweats, an ancient Trojans t-shirt and his Kings Ropes hat. He hauled the bag, baskets and bottles into the laundromat, set the first machine to wash, and sat back. First into the washer was Vic's proclaimed _dead guy blanket_, and in the next machine, a load of his colors.

It was relaxing to just go inside his head and watch the rhythmic susurration of the machine until near the end of the first load, when he saw a white Dodge pickup pull up next to the Bronco. He knew she wasn't on duty, even on call…she had no _official_ reason to be there or to consult with him. He decided to go out and see what was up.

By the time he got out there, she was wrestling a garbage bag of her own. She was wearing a Flyers t-shirt and short athletic shorts which left little to the imagination, but to which he could lend appreciation. Sporting acid green and purple sneakers, she looked like she was ready for a run. In the cleavage of her t-shirt, he could see a glimpse of north end of the scratches left from their barbed-wire pig wrestling match. He knew a couple of them ran down to her belly, where the wire had split her dress, and a hoof had also caught her in a couple of places.

"Here, let me," said Walt, as he pulled the bag out with ease, letting her get her own boxes and a bottle of floral detergent, and a small packet of softener sheets. When she bent over to extract the boxes, he enjoyed the unexpected bonus view.

"Great minds think alike?" she asked, as he held the door open for her despite toting her own wadded pile.

"Maybe," he said, hoping she was enjoying him in sweats as much as he enjoyed her in shorts. "After the hog spectacle, I thought I should wash the blanket we sat on, and it just sort of snowballed from there, thought I might as well get the rest of my dirty stuff done, too." He neglected to mention not washing the Sunday before.

"You're right about the great minds, then. I'm behind, too."

He made a wry face. "Day off."

She smiled. "Day off."

"How are your, um, wounded in the line of duty and all that…?"

"Scratches, a few bruises, nothing too bad. One rib is a little sore."

That was a quandary. She was technically not officially on duty and had been out of uniform… "Do you think we should go in and get it looked at?"

"No," she shook her head emphatically. _We_ should not. It's just a little sore. Not even badly bruised, really. Just a little sore."

She began to sort and start a load. "How many do you have to go?"

"At least three left, one is my sheets."

"Oh, three for me, including my sheets and my whites."

"Okay."

"So why don't you do them at the cabin? I saw the washer and dryer behind your kitchen when we were working on the Murder Board." She began to load the machine with all her darks, and added detergent. She slammed the lid and the machine began to swish.

"Washer's broke. Bad broke. Cady keeps wanting me to buy a new matching set. Some days, I don't see the point, it's just easier to do it here all at once."

Vic continued watching the laundry swishing around the glass-front machine. "The point is she wants you to move toward the future. Ignoring the broken one doesn't make it less broken."

"The fix is pretty expensive."

"Then Cady makes sense," she said practically. "A new one should last what, 15-20 years?"

He scowled. "Maybe not. Nothing new works as well as the old ones."

Vic gave an enigmatic smile and rummaged in her bag. He thought he heard her murmur something like "hoping."

"What?"

She shook her head. "It would save you a lot of money in the long run, right?"

"It would save you money, too, to have a set. Especially since I know what the county pays you."

She twisted her lips. "That's why I live where I do, but that place doesn't have room for them."

"Or the hookups or anything. I told you, it's a dump, and I don't like that you live there. You and Sean had an okay place, but this one…"

"Yes, I know your opinion of my domicile," she said, a little distant and frosty, and watched her darks spin.

He turned to her, noticing they were both sitting in almost the same stance. Some days it was almost spooky. He preferred to think of it as _samers_. It was almost like finishing each other's sentences, or his speech patterns, something Vic had mentioned in passing that Henry had commented on once. He had noticed it, too.

"Say, about saving money—how many whites do you have, today?" she asked suddenly.

"Whites?"

"You know, not colored laundry? Really, do I _have_ to explain?"

"Oh. A lot of socks, a few t-shirts and some boxers…"

A smile formed on her lips. "You wear white boxers?"

"You got a point to make?"

"Uh—no. Just interesting."

"How so?"

"I would have thought you were a color or pattern guy. Are yours the short ones or the long ones?"

"_That_ is _my_ business."

"Oh."

"Yep."

"I was thinking we could wash our whites together."

He could feel his eyebrows go up.

"Well, you know, combine two small loads into one."

It was not that it was a _bad_ idea, and he was very curious what her whites might look like, but it was _definitely_ none of _his_ business—yet.

"Maybe Cady's right," he admitted.

She looked around from where she was observing his load on the spin cycle. It appeared to be nearly completed.

"I should probably buy new units. The dryer isn't broken, but I could get matching ones, and I could sell the old dryer. Might be the last ones I ever need to buy before I retire and move in with Lucian."

She grimaced but just shrugged at his referring to himself as old.

He felt bad he had put her in her place and then alluded to his age, but it was technically none of her business—yet. To maybe mend things a bit, he asked, "Would you consider doing an internet search for me up some recommended ones on your laptop? You know, Top Buys?"

She looked up, startled. "Uh—"

"We could take your truck down to Sheridan and bring them back this afternoon. You could finish your loads with the new equipment."

"Uh—"

"Like maybe at Sears? Unless you had other plans?" He threw in, "I'll even buy you lunch for letting me use your truck."

"It's a county vehicle, Walt. It's as much yours as mine."

"It's the county's, but you know it's cleared for personal use as well. One of the few perks of the job."

"Well…unless they have Wifi here, I'll have to go to the station or somewhere…"

"The Bee advertises WiFi. I could buy you breakfast." He suddenly realized he had just offered to buy her two meals in less than a minute. Did he already sound desperate, or just determined to spend the day with her?

"We'll be here awhile," she said, pointing to the laundry.

"Let's dry up what we have in the washers now and save the rest. We can inaugurate the new units this afternoon."

"Well…"

"You have other plans?"

She ducked her head, and he thought, no_, she didn't_. He felt the warmth of the prospect of just spending time with her suddenly expand in his chest.

"Well, then." He put the blanket and his darks into two dryers and felt happier than he had anticipating the wedding. There would be no strangling ties at Sears, time with Vic, and no one clamoring for his or her attention.

She had made a list of suitable machines, prices, and specs from several sites on the internet while they had been having The Usual at the Bee.

XXX

He had been a little uncomfortable at the notion of going to Sheridan with her in short-shorts and him in sweats. She had suggested they both change into something a little more appropriate for Sheridan, and fortunately, his first load had netted him clean jeans, checked underwear, and a snap shirt. His socks that day had been clean, but the last clean pair.

They stopped at the station and changed. At least he felt like himself again. His hat, of course, with his duty weapon, star and cuffs, was in the Bronco if he wanted it, but he still just wore the Kings' Ropes hat for the moment.

Hers netted an Eagles t-shirt and black capris, which he thought looked pretty cute with the sneakers. She had wound her hair in a ponytail that morning, and looked like she could be Gidget or Princess from _Father Knows Best_. If he told her that, he knew it would date him as an old guy, might even make him sound sexist, so he didn't say anything.

They drove both vehicles back to the cabin to measure the size of the washer and dryer, and the size of the place they were putting it. He quickly removed the hoses and moved the old ones, walking them to the far end of the back porch. They rode together in her truck to Henry's to borrow his appliance dolly. While they had been in Henry's storeroom and out of Vic's hearing, Walt had made his request.

"My pantry's pretty bare. Could you possibly leave dinner for two there this afternoon?"

Henry looked at him with interest. "For you and Vic?"

He jerked his head. That was as much as he had in him right that moment.

"I could do that," said Henry, evaluating, as they walked together out to the truck where Vic was sitting shotgun.

"Thanks," Walt said, noticing Henry eyeing Vic as she had helped him load the dolly.

"Your deputy is out of uniform," said Henry gravely.

"We're not on duty. She's performing a mercy mission by accompanying me to buy appliances."

"She looks cute like that."

"You should have seen her _uniform_ an hour ago," Walt said, chuckling.

"Okay…"

"Short shorts. You know, _we wear short shorts..._"

"Oh. You are in appreciation phase."

"Still."

"While you are in Sheridan, could you pick up some parchment paper for me?"

Walt scowled. "If I knew where to find that…"

"Probably the grocery store, or specialty kitchen store. I've gotten it from Safeway there, before."

"Ah."

"It's for baking, Walt," Vic piped up from the cab. "Uncle Alphonse uses it for his Christmas cookies. Keeps 'em from burning."

Walt felt his face grow hot. The truck windows were open and she must have heard the entire conversation. He made a face at Henry, who merely gave a sympathetic smile.

He vaulted into the truck cab, looking over at Vic, who was pointedly staring out the window and rapping her knuckles against the door.

"It's not okay to appreciate my deputy?"

"Fuck you, Walt. This is _not_ sheriff business."

At the moment, silence seemed like the better part of valor. It was a beautiful day, and they made the drive to Sheridan's mall in record time, punctuated by a few small comments between them. He hoped he was forgiven. He pulled near where he knew Sears Roebuck's appliance section was, and stopped the truck.

An hour later, and a little in awe at Vic's cut-throat wrangling before purchase, he was proud owner of a sturdy new, white set. The older style was still most reliable, and he didn't care. She said it was silly to buy a designer color steam set which would never be seen in the back of the cabin. She had also gotten them to credit the 'free delivery' special as a discount. He thought he would take her next time he went to the IGA.

He was happy, and she _looked _happy. He bought them slushies in the Food Court, then went around to back the truck up to the Will Call area. Loaded up, they drove down the street, and he pulled up in front of the Boot Barn. He had never purchased there, before, but knew the ladies liked to shop there. Actually, he knew Cady liked to shop there.

"Why are we here?" she asked hesitantly.

"I owe you some boots. I'd replace the dress, too, but I guess that was one-of-a-kind."

She was silent for a minute. "You don't have to fucking buy me _anything_, Walt. That might be interpreted as inappropriate."

He tipped her chin up, and he saw her nostrils flare at his touch. "It might be if it were just to curry favor or pay you for personal services, that sort of thing. Or if I were going to use county money."

He saw her go from defensive, to almost receptive. "Oh."

"Hey, I'm just offering because you could have worn your duty boots last night, and the county might be replacing those today. It was my error in judgment, so I'm making it right."

She huffed out. "Well, if you put it that way…"

"We can at least look," he said, nudging her toward the entrance. "If you don't like anything, we'll make it a raincheck, okay?"

She gave in. "Okay."

He hadn't been in a shoe store with a woman for years. Martha often ordered hers in the mail or went down to Denver for them. Cady had her own tastes and hadn't wanted him along for a really long time.

He fingered a pair of off-white Ropers with fringe. "How about these? They're sort of like the boots you were wearing…"

"Walt!" she whispered. "Those last night were from Wal-mart, these are the _real things_!"

"Well, yeah," he said, "they should last you for years, not just one night…"

"They are _way_ too much."

"Those are on sale, ma'am, 20% off, today," said a clerk, who had glided up behind them to peddle.

"See?" he asked, and smiled. "At least try them on. If you don't like them, we keep looking." He hoped the 'we' didn't offend her and that she wouldn't exclude him. He was actually enjoying himself, especially the way the boots looked on her. He could almost imagine another sundress, and peeling it and the boots off her sometime in the near future …


	12. Chapter 12

**Survival**

**Chapter 12**

**Laundry Day Part II**

_**Okay, so I keep rewriting and extending this, and I keep thinking of more thing to add to it. Some of you have seen a scene or two. Oh, well, time to let it fly and be free. Another couple chapters of this are nearly ready to add to this one. We're finally catching up to Chapter One and going to move into the future…**_

_**An installment of Leaving Durant is next up, probably tomorrow, for those who have been asking.**_

_**Laundry Day continued…**_

It was a good thing they had tarped up the new washer and dryer, metal water and new dryer hoses and a bag full of new hardware. A mid-afternoon thunderstorm had blown in, and it was raining heavily as they pulled up to the back of the cabin. Great gouts of water blew off the roof and completely ignored the downspouts. They had been slowed to a crawl, so the hour drive from Sheridan had taken almost two.

"If we can get them unloaded onto the back porch, we can install them at our leisure," Walt said. He began to back the truck close to the porch door.

"O-ka-kay," she said, rubbing her arms. The temperature had gone down at least 30 degrees in the last hour. In his jacket, he was fine, but he could see the flesh of her arms had goose-pimples all over it.

He debated only a moment before removing his jacket, throwing it over her, and trotting to the back of the truck. He unthreaded the tarp, removed the dolly and got the washer in position. By the time he was beginning to slide the unwieldy machine toward him, she had vaulted into the truck bed sans jacket, and was pushing the washer toward him. So much for his chivalry, but he quickly availed himself of the help, managed to get it onto other end of the small covered porch, and came back for the dryer. After both pieces were safely unloaded, he removed the hardware from the pickup bed. She went back to the cab, and brought in his hat, jacket and the bag with the boots, receipts and manuals.

They left her truck parked at the back porch.

When he got in, he lit the fire he kept laid, warm or cold out. Bighorn weather could change on a dime. By the time he got it going, she was wearing an ancient, faded Trojans sweatshirt of his with frayed sleeves which were rolled up about three times, and making coffee. It took him a few minutes to realize she was no longer wearing the capris, and he wondered with more interest than he probably should have had at the moment, what she might be wearing under the sweatshirt.

"Shirt looks better on you, than me," he said gruffly, but he noticed she was still shivering and he realized that he was, too.

"Oh, go take a hot shower and get warm," she said. "You got wetter than I did. Coffee will be hot and waiting when you get out."

He debated. "I'll take you up on that," he said, "_after_ we get them running." He went and took off his wet shirt, throwing on another sweatshirt as a stop-gap. Together they resembled a bedraggled Old Navy ad.

She shrugged, and he could see she was still pretty cold. Hopefully the fire would warm the whole place. Just in case it didn't, he put one of his space heaters near where they'd be hooking things up.

A half-hour later, she loaded _all _their whites into the washer, added bleach, and set it to wash. They were both dusty, and she had a streak of something across her nose. He was pretty sure he smelled of sweat and dust. He was on his back, just finishing up leveling the feet under the dryer, small wrench in hand.

She looked down at him, grinning. "Fucking long _white_ boxers," she said with a mischievous grin and glint in her eye.

He quickly determined that the dryer feet were as level as they would ever be.

"Oh, yeah?" he asked softly, and took the gamble he'd been wanting to take for months. He dropped the wrench, took her hand and pulled her down on top of him. She landed, elbows bent, hands on his chest.

She gave a little inhalation and looked suddenly soft, and maybe more than a little vulnerable, as in open to the idea, so he leaned up and took her mouth with his, firm, open, but not exploring...yet, just asking permission. Her eyes changed right before him, went all smoky, the tarnished gold looking more feral than ever.

She pulled back just a little, brows furrowed in question. "_Now_?" she asked, as though marveling that they were touching at all. She laid there balanced on his chest, and let her fingers wander his face.

"Isn't this better than in front of all of Durant at someone else's wedding, or in a soap-hole?" He rubbed a thumb over her nose, removing the smudge there.

She gave a huge wondering grin. "You wanted to do _this_ at the _soap-hole_?"

He made a non-committal noise. She still seemed to be evaluating their new position.

"Florian sorta helped me make up my mind."

"You mean…"

"He, um, got my engine running when he ripped your dress."

She gave one of her snorts at that, but ran her hand along his cheek. "Yeah, he did get to touch them before you did…"

"I should take him an apple as a thank-you."

He ran his large hands up under the sweatshirt to the anatomy in question, weighing, grazing them with his thumbs, puckered nipples belying her cool retorts.

"Custom fit," he said.

"So," she said in kind of an unsteady voice, "the units are hooked up and running, and I'm still fucking freezing…"

"Didn't you mention a shower a while back?" he asked in a gentle voice he hadn't heard come out of his mouth for a long while.

"Yes," she said, tentatively, and then more firmly, "yes, I did."

He rolled her off him and jumped to his feet, pulling her with him, before scooping her up and carrying her toward the bathroom. He just hoped that with all the dirty laundry, he still had some clean towels for her.

"Am I finally going to meet the infamous sheriff burrito shower system?" she asked with delight, arms around his neck, laughing as he deposited her on her feet in the center of the bathroom, but he noted her teeth were chattering a little.

"Of worldwide notoriety," he acknowledged gravely, rummaging for towels and finding two, then setting the shower on, before returning to her, putting one towel around her and taking her hands in his. She regarded him warily, teeth still chattering a little.

"I guess this is it…" and then, with more certainty he took a breath. "No, this _is_ it, where I offer you my heart and body, my hearth and home, my wordly goods, hopefully the sheriff's job in a few years, my name if you want it, and maybe a baby or two down the road, if you are so inclined…"

Her eyes went huge. She swallowed hard, and he thought, _I've blown it._ _Too much, too soon, _but he didn't want to start anything he wasn't willing to finish.

"Oh, Walt," she said, as though short of breath, or in disbelief. He touched her cheek, chilled and pale. She framed his face with trembling hands, exclaiming, "Oh—fuck it!" as she launched herself at him. She kissed him like no one else ever had before, drawing on him, first sipping and tentative, and then wet and heavy as though she were hungry for all of him at once.

He gave back as good as he got, began to bestow open-mouthed kisses, touching her everywhere, beginning with pulling up the concealing sweatshirt and tossing it across the room. As he moved down from her neck to her torso, he began to see how scratched and bruised she was, to just below her waist. He paid special attention with his mouth and hands to Florian's handiwork at a bruise on her right torso at the ribs, even while her hands tugged at his hair, trying to pull him up to kiss him again. He held back, dragging down the flowered bikinis for her to step out of, before she returned the favor with his belt and jeans. Maybe so it wouldn't get wet, she unthreaded his belt and tossed it toward the bedroom.

He had a few days of stubble, and hoped it had come in soft enough it would not prickle too much. When they were both naked and laughing and unsure, but both overwhelmed with the undeniable evidence of _wanting_, he picked her up and together they made the short journey to become Durant's first Sheriff and Deputy Combo Burrito.

He was relieved he had gone for the sturdier 2x6 cabin construction as he backed her to the edge of the shower, with the plastic sheeting unsuccessfully attempting to asphyxiate them as they went for the main event. Sundress and boots be damned, he was in heaven _now_.

XXX

It was still dark, middle of the night, he gauged. She was lying on his chest, head lolling to one side, almost purring. He felt an expansive sense of well-being, maybe even a hint of smugness for having the capacity to please her in the bed as well as the shower, before they gave suitable attention to the meal Henry had left, after which they had both succumbed to exhaustion. Something occurred to him, maybe it should have sooner, but everything had pretty well overpowered him there in the shower, well, and then later, to the exclusion of all else.

"Vic…" he ventured.

"Mmmmm," was her articulate reply.

"Have you decided?"

"Mmmmm. She sighed, propped herself up a little and turned her head so she was facing him. Bleary, not real awake yet? "Decide whattt? If you're asking coffee, then that would be a _yes._"

"You know. Us."

She sounded unsure. "I do? Um, okay," she said, as though formulating thoughts sans coffee. "I think everything's good." She cleared her throat. "I'm on the pill until _we_ decide otherwise, Doc Bloomfield himself has been testing us for _everything_ for years, because we're both exposed to blood-borne pathogens in the field…I even went in after the divorce, just to be sure everything was okay after Sean. We're both of age, consenting adults, not seeing anyone…am I missing something? Is it Cady?" she asked hopefully.

"No. Not Cady." He said it firmly. "After that day in the bar…you were cleaning my ear…next time I saw her after I got back from Denver, she said she hoped we would be happy."

"Oh! I did _not_ expect _that_! Then, is it Henry?"

"Nope. He's good with us." He took the proverbial bit in his teeth. "I'm talking about, what I asked you, um," he jerked his head, "in the shower."

"You asked me…"

"Yep. It _was_ a proposal," he reminded her, just in case she had missed that point. They had both been distracted, after all. "But you didn't answer in the shower."

There was a pause. Then, "My answer…is that I am just so damned happy right now, I could cry. Right now, I just want to be happy."

He paused, paralyzed that he had ruined it all, pushed too fast. He nodded, hesitantly. That was when he suddenly realized that if she didn't want to marry him, he still wanted those morning coffees on the porch, he wanted her here like this, he wanted it all, but would take whatever she was willing to give, and hope she might want more at some undefined time down the road.

So, instead of pressing her further, he pulled her close and said, "Of course you can be happy. I'm happy, too."

"Happy, first time I've ever heard you say that. What about guilt…like the guilt you had after Martha?"

He held her a little tighter, and stubbornly that part of him woke up again. "I made my peace up there on the hillside where she and I were married, accordion, cheap champagne and all. I feel… ready for wherever we decide to go." He gave her a little squeeze in emphasis. "I wouldn't even mind if you wanted to model your new boots and put on my hat, later…"

Maybe she felt his interest. Maybe she was thinking. She murmured "Hmmmm…." disengaged and disappeared into the bathroom for a few minutes, returning in nothing but the boots and hat, and placing her iPod carefully next to the bed, straddled him.

"Save a horse, ride a cowboy…" she murmured in his ear, and the rest of him was instantly ready for action, but her hand on his chest stayed him. She whispered, "Whoa, I need to pay homage first."

He wasn't sure what that meant. She _showed_ him, though, turning him onto his stomach, caressing his back, tracing and kissing the entirety of the scars on his back wet and thorough, top to bottom.

"For Martha," she whispered from near his neck, rolled him onto his back, ignoring his obvious interest, and moved to his chest. "For Cady," she whispered, kissing those marks, and finally, moved to his side and open-mouthed, hovered over and sweetly kissed his shoulder which had the permanent reminder of his duel with Chance. "And for me." She paused. "I hope the fuck these are the entire catalog of the Walt Longmire Scars Collection for our future together."

He nuzzled her neck in full agreement, at which time, she grabbed her iPod, restraddled him, put one earbud into his ear, one in hers, and played the song "Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy," to his delight, which preceded more detailed instruction into her notions of the convolutions of hot monkey sex.

He woke once in the darkened room to a sense that all was right. She still slept in the circle of his arms, the firelight from the front room flickering shadows on the wall around them, the summer rain still tapping on the roof. The rain had brought a chill with it, but together, they were cozy and complete.

Her new boots and his hat, properly brim up for luck shared pride of place on his favorite overstuffed reading chair, where they had been flung during the night. Whatever she was willing to share with him, he hoped that seeing those things there would become a commonplace occurrence for many years to come.


	13. Chapter 13

**Survival**

**The Day After Laundry Day**

**Chapter 13**

**(End of chapter)**

_**The crime mentioned in the chapter is based upon an actual crime committed in Montana February? 2015…reported in a Sheridan, WY paper. Another one of the bazillion unusual stories out of the High Plains states. **_

_**Timeline-wise, I'm pretty close to catching up to Chapter 1, which means, the subsequent chapters will be about moving into the future, augmenting their personal and professional relationships with other forms of survival.**_

_**Would love more reviews over the course of the arc. If you have read other of my pieces, you may have noticed that I'm better at writing relationships than mystery/action/violence segments, which are often challenges for me.**_

_**Meanwhile, there were just a few dirty items left after Laundry Day…**_

The sense of glorious indulgence was the first thing she felt as she struggled awake. Her body felt slightly sensitized, but she couldn't remember when she had felt so satisfied. Where he'd been still convulsively echoed now and then, sticky but slick, her body acutely sensitive to where his stubble had grazed. Her ribs were still a little sore from her encounter two days earlier with Florian and the unaccustomed activity of the last twelve hours, but she felt so…_alive_.

She heard a slight noise, cracked an eye open. Pale pre-dawn light filtered through window not her own, past the nailed-up curtain, to…a long, familiar, hairy arm draped around her. The morning was cool, the fireplace in the main room had died down, and it was chilly in the bedroom, but under the covers and with a long furnace called Walt at her back, she was cozy-comfortable.

The noise was him stirring, like a sleeping sigh. She couldn't resist studying his large, capable hand sprinkled with dark hairs, relaxed and lying open across her stomach. Indulging herself, she took the unresisting hand and brought it to her lips.

She quietly rolled to her back, watching him sleeping. He had a broad smile on his face, but one she'd rarely seen before, and that only fleeting.

A sudden movement, and his arm gathered her into him. Sneaky! She found her shoulder nestled under his armpit, her breath against his chest hair. She could smell him—a little sweat, sage, maybe some leather, _her,_ the result of their exertions the night before. She hoped she carried the same aroma of him about her, and wished she could bottle it. It was undeniably erotic.

He rumbled under her ear, "Wondered when you'd wake up. "Horse has been awake and demanding breakfast for a couple of hours, now. I called in and left a message for Ruby that we might not be in until early afternoon, but I'm on call if anything happens sooner. You can sleep in as late as you want. You've had a couple of long days."

_Yeah_, she thought _long_. Attending a wedding, rescuing a hog, shopping for major appliances, doing laundry, and…a mini-honeymoon of sorts…Okay, she'd accept the word _long._

She could faintly hear a whinny in the distance. Then his words penetrated the lingering fog of sleep.

"Horse _does_ sound pissed. Wait—You told Ruby _both_ of us? Uh-oh."

"Truth. We don't have to hide from Ruby. There's also a case we need to look into later, faxed over from Montana. A dozen horses, _pet_ horses, decapitated. A Pretty on Top is mayor up there, and thinks they've identified the perpetrator as a white guy who's supposed to have a girlfriend on the Rez. They think he may be retreating this way to hide out."

She thought about it and cringed a little. "That sounds more like a Philly Mafia thing, horse heads and all that, but okay. Where do we start?"

"Having Mathias contact the girlfriend and see if he's been around. We may want to go out and talk to her as well."

Another whinny, louder and more insistent, sounded.

"Hmmm…you think Horse is jealous that you ride me, too?" He only paused a second, but responded by tickling her tummy half-heartedly. When she glanced up, his eyes had opened as though enjoying her, but that self-satisfied smile was still there.

"That is one shit-eating grin, Walter Longmire. I am going to call that the shit-eating, cat got the canary and THEN the cream, grin."

"That's quite the title."

"Matches quite the night."

She wondered if his suddenly ruddy complexion was from blushing. She wriggled, he released her and she rolled over to warm her back again. It had already gotten cold when turned away from the Longmire Furnace.

"Vic, you remember that friend of yours, Claudia, who visited you from Philly last summer?"

So where was this line of questioning going? She decided to find out.

"Yeah, I remember. She and I went to high school together and visited here last month. She's a ditz."

"A ditz?"

Walt, it's, well, I don't take her seriously. Really, she works as a fashion consultant. It's like a dilettante job. She's always been more worried about appearances than substance. I mean, that's in contrast to this job, which may not pay a lot, but there's a lot of diligent police work and a sense of fulfillment after we get bad guys off the street."

He digested that for a moment. Then, "I had to use the men's room at the Pony, and when I came out, she was pontificating. I stayed at the back wall all the way to the bar just so I could be enlightened."

"Uh-oh. _Pontificating_?"

He tilted his head a little. "Educating you on the foibles of older men."

Now she hesitated. He couldn't have possibly heard _that_, could he?

"Walt, just spit it out. What did you hear?"

"She was warning you against older men, that the rumors are true, they can't get it up, keep it up, or do it again. She called it _The Old Guy Trilogy_. She sounded like she had it all figured out. Her message was worse than the commercials with the bathtubs or little blue pills."

"And…you took her seriously? The Oracle from Philadelphia?" His words penetrated. "Wait, how do you know about those commercials…?"

"I took it seriously that you might have _believed_ her. And, football, of course. The commercials are a direct frontal assault on older men."

She sighed, but hesitated before rolling back and burrowing into his side again. "Well, it's obvious bunk. You disproved that three times over in the last twelve hours—"

"Four."

She paused again, feeling her forehead crinkle. "Four?"

He took her hand and ticked off a finger for each point. "Shower, me on top, you on top, me behind..."

"Ohhh" Her eyes narrowed, tallying them. "But—we haven't done it with you behind…"

She remembered suddenly how smug he sounded, and the grin. Detective Moretti swiftly pieced it together.

"You _dog_!"

His eyes closed, grin back in place, rolled her to her side facing away from him, and brought the covers up over them again.

"I concur with your conclusion, Deputy. Let me warm you up."

XXX

Waking again at what seemed like much later, she laid a tentative hand on his chest. She had been vaguely aware he had gotten up at some point, probably to relieve himself and placate Horse, but he seemed to have rejoined her. She wasn't sure if he were sleeping again, or not.

Sunshine flooded in the windows, but in her mind, it was time. She moved closer, laid her head on his chest where her hand had been. His arm instantly came around her and held her close. So, not so asleep as she might have thought.

"Tell me about Martha." She let it float for a minute.

He seemed to be weighing her words. The pause was more than mere hesitation. "What do you want to know?"

"As much as you're willing to share. I feel like she is still part of you, and I want to know everything about you. Sometimes," she paused, "I don't think I can measure up, because so many people in Durant loved her." She bit her lip.

"Why do you think that?" His voice sounded almost sharp in the pale morning light, and she suddenly thought she might be very sorry indeed she had brought up the topic if he retreated back into his head again.

"What?" she asked, startled.

"That you feel you can't measure up. That people here loved her. Cady and I loved her, she loved the Methodist Church, she loved controlling committees and groups, and she may have been respected, but I'm not sure people here loved _her_."

"They all speak well of her. She is thought of as a _good woman_. In my head I sometimes think of her as…" she wondered if he would explode or retreat from her with the words, but whispered them, "The Paragon of Durant. At least it seems like she was someone I'm not. You know, me, poor impulse control, language, authority issues, temper…"

He was very quiet for a minute.

"She was very religious, some might say devout. She also had secrets which I have yet to figure out, although it feels like I've spent the better part of a lifetime trying."

"Secrets?" she asked, startled. That was a word she had _never_ heard applied to Martha.

"Remember the visit to the psychic? That was not her first, although there was no physical evidence from earlier visits. It was only the latest in a long list of things I wondered about for years."

"That…I didn't know that," she whispered.

"No. If she was sharing secrets with Cassandra, and it seemed like Cassandra had enough secrets that it was initially unclear what got _her_ killed, I have no idea what was going on between Martha and Cassandra, and there were numerous other…questions…all along our marriage."

Vic didn't say anything for a minute. "Could she have been protecting you and Cady because you are a public figure?" she asked, "because I could understand that. It's why I didn't say any more about Gorski when he checked himself out of the hospital. I was afraid you'd destroy your career for me, and I don't think I could have lived with that. You almost did that _before_ Hector visited him. It's why I did what I did."

He huffed under her hand. "You've always tried to protect me, swinging on Mathias, for example."

She shrugged. "I told you once you can't protect everybody…"

"And neither can you, but I love that you try. And regarding Martha, that doesn't mean she wasn't a good woman…" he said softly. "And just because you were a bad girl, doesn't make you a bad woman, either."

She laid her head against his shoulder. "I don't want to have secrets from you."

She could feel him shrug under her cheek. "Everybody has secrets. They might be tiny or huge. They are only destructive when your secrets can hurt other people, or you have ones that can eat you alive…"

"Like the ones you carried inside about Martha's death."

"Yep."

"I may have more questions along the way. I don't know very much about her, or how you two got along…"

"You can ask. I hope I have the answers. It wasn't all clear-cut. There are times marriage is compromise from both sides. I just know I'm willing to figure it out with you for the rest of our lives. That's pretty much all anyone can ask for, a future together figuring things out."

She nodded against him, but he was suddenly moving away, off the bed, in his boxers, and scooping her toward him. He lifted her easily in his arms.

"Let me show you," he said softly. She tilted her head in question, as he carried her to his front room.

"Grab that blanket for me, will you?" She snatched the blanket draped over the chair near the fire, and he sat with her at his piano, adjusting her a little on his lap. He wrapped the blanket around them both. She clutched the edges together as his long arms reached from beneath and began to play. She laid her head against his shoulder.

She had never heard him play his own piano, before. At the wedding, there had been a number of comments about 'Walt finally playing again.' But this was different…this was for her alone. She thought it was Gershwin, but it was with feeling, seductive, warm, maybe with more than a little of himself imbued into the notes. He played on, a variety of pieces, for a long while. When the last notes died away, he nuzzled her.

"The music speaks for you?" she asked with a secret smile.

"Yep. Did you understand it?"

"I think so, and if so, then, _Yes_."

"Yes?"

"Yes, to your question in the shower. Yes, eventually, when we agree when and how we want to make it happen."

He didn't say anything for a minute. He seemed to relax against her, and sighed as though completely content.

"Well, okay then." But he kissed her to seal the deal, and if they were really, _really_ late getting into work, and it turned into _five _times, who was really counting?

XXX

That deal-sealing kiss had indeed led to other things she felt powerless to stop, or more accurately, she felt motivated to see through, and so they got in very late to work. Walt took the usual post-its and dealt with them from the privacy of his office. Ferg seemed surprised to see her.

"I thought you were taking the day off," said Ferg.

"Misunderstanding," she said, knowing that he had covered almost all weekend for both Walt and herself, and that it wouldn't be fair to Ferg to _not_ show up. Lucian had covered dispatch for Ferg and Ruby during the wedding, but the junior deputy had been practically living at the station all weekend. He was becoming both competent and capable, but that was no excuse not to pull their own, and even more so now, _collective_ weights.

"Ruby said that…you were with Walt?"

She raised an eyebrow, and he changed the subject.

Ruby knew, it was only fair Ferg should, too, but only after discussing it with Walt and presenting a united front. No blindsiding. After a respectable amount of time, she walked back to Walt's office. She closed the door, but stood in front of it.

"Are you comfortable sharing with Ruby _and_ Ferg that we're seeing each other?"

He sat back in his chair. "Not that we're _engaged_?" he asked, surprising her.

"I thought maybe we should just give them a little time to absorb the _seeing_ part_, _fuck, to absorb the _us_ part in any form?"

"Okay," he said, "but I'm willing to share, or celebrate more any time you want."

"I think we should tell them both _now _that we're seeing each other. We can figure out the rest later?"

He shrugged as though either was fine with him.

They came back up front together.

Ruby was typing and Ferg appeared to be absorbed with the Arbogast report from Montana. Walt looked over to her, tilted his head. Her brows rose and she jerked her head to the two absorbed people.

Walt cleared his throat, then took her hand in his. "Um, Vic and I thought you should know, we've started seeing one another. It's not a secret, especially here in the office, but we're not really broadcasting it yet, either. Ferg, I know you protected Vic for me after Branch's attack on her, but…if you think, or _Ruby_, if you notice anything, if either of us are out of line or unprofessional, come see me and we'll work through it. It's new territory for all of us."

To her surprise, neither of them seemed surprised at all, but Ferg said quietly to her after Walt had eventually retreated to his office, "I'm glad for you both. He's needed someone." She idly wondered if maybe Ferg was not only talking about Walt, but about himself. She wrinkled her brows, she couldn't think of too many girls he might be interested in around Durant.

After that, it seemed like a long Monday afternoon-into-evening trying to develop leads on the whereabouts of a person of interest in the Rez-related case, researching one George Arbogast, whose pickup had been identified leaving the area near the crime, which was a long, remote gully just off the Montana side of the Rez.

It was equally challenging to set up effective professional walls at work to contain their new-found intimacy. She found herself with a rather startling clear daydream at four in the afternoon, and firmly tamped it down and filed it away. Another time, as Walt merely walked past, she wanted to riffle her hands through his hair, and willed her hands into stillness around her pen and hockey puck.

The daydream was not a bad notion, though, and she thought, _Maybe we could try that later…_becauseit now looked like there would be a _lot _of_ laters._

She forced herself back to the case. The bottom line to the case was that Mathias had jurisdiction, but didn't want to pursue the suspect because Arbogast was white, and technically in Walt's county. Arbogast did have a residence down near Powder River, but had been reported in the Durant area over the last few months. Word had it George had recently moved back to the Rez because his long-time, long-suffering girlfriend who had reported him for abuse twice over a period of years, had borne him a second child less than a year ago, and it was more or less a safe place for him.

"I don't know," said Vic in disgust at one point, "I try to give our persons of interest the benefit of the doubt, but this guy has scumbag written all over him from the get-go. I don't know how Mathias can live with letting this fucker openly abuse her without arresting him."

"I get it for the abuse stuff here, but how is he connected to the horse mutilations?" asked Ferg.

She shrugged. No doubt a pattern would emerge, but for now, it all revolved around collecting data and trying to create a paper trail for Arbogast over the last several months. "It might not even be _him,_ it might be someone driving his pickup, but there are certainly enough questions to warrant an investigation."

"Into the horses or the abuse?"

"Into _why_ the horses, and anything connected with that, including other crimes." It was pretty much all Walt and she had discussed on the way into work that morning. They had retrieved her truck from the back porch and she had followed him in, although he'd made a stop for ruggela and coffee at the little Basque bakery shop in the center of town.

"Okay," said Ferg.

"Say, Ferg. You remember when Walt was on Cloud Peak, and I told you that you had to leave?"

"Uh—yeah."

"Yeah, well…that was because I didn't want you to see me cry. I was really afraid he might not…make it."

"Really? You cry?"

"Yeah," she said, now trying to joke it off. "Go figure, but I was worried. Those FBI ass-hats would have let him die, and we had no idea Henry and Branch were on their way up. Omar saved him with his cold weather gear, but we didn't know that, either."

"Yeah, it was messed up."

"Totally fucked. Did Walt tell you that FBI guy tried to offer me a job not long ago?"

"No! When was that?"

She jerked her head. "Couple of months ago. Another FBI guy who Walt knew from that so-called undercover thing he did in Powder River a couple of years ago, was with Towson. They liked the Murder Board. Walt put in a good word for you, if ever you want to pursue that path."

"FBI?" he almost whispered. "_Hell_, no!"

She laughed in delight. "That is pretty fucking much what _I _said _before_ they offered me the job! Anyway, thought you might want to know."

"Yeah! Well, you know, if it doesn't work out here, for some reason…" he kind of trailed off.

"Like what, Ferg?"

"Well…my dad isn't as crazy about me working here anymore, after Branch…"

She bit her lip. She hadn't thought of that aspect of police work, especially how Ferg's dad might feel, now. Surely being shot twice in one year, once by a family member, didn't both qualify as in 'the line of duty,' even if that line of investigation had implicated said family member?

"You can't think about that stuff too much or it'll make you crazy. You just do your job."

"Yeah, and I have come to really _like_ it."

"That's great, Ferg. You've come a long way, here." But she was sorry she couldn't offer more comfort, especially to his dad.

She wondered if Walt still thought about Chance and Ridges, or if it still affected him in ways. She still thought punching Jacob had been part of the fight-or-flight left from the ambush earlier that morning. If you added Henry and Branch, they all had experienced the year from hell.

Huh.

Meanwhile, the image of her 4 pm daydream intruded once more.

Double huh.


	14. Chapter 14

**Survival**

**Chapter 14**

**Really Not a Chapter at All**

—_**These are NOT in Sequence with Story!—**_

_**(For your consideration, a couple of short interludes from my 'Outs' folder. I have thought maybe I should call them "hors d'oeuvres" to hold one until the longer chapters finish cooking…)**_

**Late May, after Towson &amp; Cly FBI Offer…**

**(Before Wedding and Hog Wrangling…)**

**Defending Honor**

Vic had been more than surprised when Claudia had announced that she wanted to visit Wyoming.

"Why the _fuck_ would you want to come out here?" she had asked Claudia after the revelation. It didn't really ring true. She wondered if Sean, or even her mom had asked Claudia to come out and check on her. There _had_ to be a reason the Ultimate City Girl and consummate ditz wanted to visit Nowheresville, Wyoming besides girl talk.

"Uh, to see you, girl, why else?"

Yeah, right.

"Well, okay…not sure there's anything you'll want to do out here. We have hunting, fishing, hiking and dude ranches. I can't see you enjoying any of those."

"Duh, how about just being a _tourist_?"

Well, sure. So she had picked up Claudia in Sheridan earlier that day in her Absaroka county truck. The city girl was now ensconced in one of the swankier Owen Wister suites and had asked Vic to _show her the town_. There wasn't much _town,_ but some magnificent Wyoming they would be driving up and through the next day. She thought ruefully that Claudia should just have visited Jackson or something and been done with it.

However, in the spirit of things, she had brought her to that ubiquitous watering hole of epicurean delights and continual soiree to wet their whistles and for chiliburgers (since Henry was working that night.) In deference to Claudia's metropolitan tastes, she had started with a whiskey sour, but as the conversation had devolved to Sean and the dissolution of her marriage, and after Claudia had downed two more drinks in quick succession, she really fucking wanted to switch to straight whiskey. However, as a county employee, as a role model, and out of a stubborn sense of right, she settled for a beer, in the hopes she would keep her shit together enough to drive Claudia home. It didn't hurt that Walt and Henry were nearby to curb her inclinations, and she definitely didn't want either of them to have to drive her, or Claudia for that matter, home.

Claudia eyed the bar nervously. "Some grizzled old dude sitting at the bar is checking me out. He's been there a while."

"What the fuck?" asked Vic, surreptitiously craning her neck that direction. "I don't see anybody like that up there."

"The one in the loose brown coat and the hat, the tall one. He's creeping me out!"

Vic felt her lips quiver and she barely suppressed a snort. The only man close to resembling Claudia's description was Walt, engaged now in earnest conversation with Henry. Yes, with the hat and coat, he could be intimidating to suspects, but this was _Walt. _She almost let fly another WTF but checked herself at the door.

"Oh, he's not old. Just old-_er_."

"No, he's _old_, and he's watching me."

"Claudia, stop the shit." The whole conversation was creeping _her_ out, now.

"Old, but big. You know what they say," Claudia whispered confidentially, "big hands, big—"

"Heart?" supplied Vic. She wasn't going to let a ditz like Claudia diss Walt.

"No, _you know._"

"Uh, Claudia, that guy you're talking about in the brown coat? I think he's watching _me_, not _you,_ because…he's my…_boss_."

"No! _That's_ the sheriff? No way! Not the one you…"

Vic wondered what words Claudia had been about to say. _Have a crush on? Love? Want to shack up with, or something way more vulgar…_

"Yeah. Him." When she looked over, Walt had disappeared from the bar, and she took another sip of her beer. Claudia had finished her third whiskey sour, so she was pretty sure she'd be driving her Philly friend home that evening.

"Well, you used to know better than to get involved with guys older than your own dad, Vickie, at least after you got out of high school. There was that one guy with the mustache and the van…you should have learned from _that_."

That was _another_ reason she hated that nickname, because Claudia used it. Gorski, Omar, and of course, Claudia…

"Claudia, he is _not_ an old_ guy. _Walt has amazing body strength. He does more than two twenty year olds. He carried one of our deputies, a 6'4" guy bleeding out, over his shoulder for hundreds of yards, stitched him up, and saved his life. I've seen him rappel down a cliff and rescue a woman using only two sets of handcuffs and a rope. I've seen him single-handedly haul two bodies tied up together out of a river onto the bank."

"I'm just saying you should know better."

"Know better, _how so_?" Her voice had gone soft. Walt had joked with her once it was her _be afraid, be very afraid_ voice if it got to a whisper.

"Well, for obvious reasons. He's a cowboy, probably smells of horseshit, he'll die sooner, probably not so good in the bedroom, or maybe never was, unless…that's what you _want…_"

She said with some dignity, "I have grown to like cowboys. He smells _fine_." Really? They were talking about how her boss _smelled_? He smelled pretty damn amazing most of the time, except during that one case with the carcasses, or maybe after he got back from exhuming Miller Beck, yeah, not so much, then… She went on. "Sooner? Like in thirty instead of forty years? I'd be good with thirty."

She could see Walt edging his way around the back of the room behind their table, presumably from the men's room back to the bar.

Claudia's voice went to a confidential stage whisper. "No, and well…_you know_, you didn't reply to that, but'll probably crap out on you in bed. Old Guy Trilogy."

Vic cleared her throat, hoping Walt was focused on Henry, and not their 'girl talk.' "I don't believe I'm familiar with that." She was really trying to keep it together. It wouldn't do to punch her friend out in front of Walt, defending his honor, now would it? He might have to arrest her for assault…

"You know—_old guys—_can't get it up, can't keep it up, can't do it again."

"Oh, _that_ trilogy." Her discomfort level rode up from mild to intense. She tried to ignore the bar.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Is it like that with him?"

"Um." How to say, _Well, my boss hasn't even kissed me yet, but he would die for me, and I for him?_ In the end, she just settled on, "No." It seemed like she was doing a lot of _settling_ tonight.

"No, you _know_ it's not like that, or no, it hasn't happened yet?"

"Claudia, I'm barely divorced. He's old school. We're taking our time."

"But he's kissed you, right?"

"Y'know, he's my boss, and I'm not doing kiss and tell. This topic is just not appropriate."

"You've been _talking_ about him all evening…so you get to the juicy stuff, and just _clam up_?"

She supposed it was true. Walt was her best friend in Durant, after all. He was mostly _why_ she was still in Durant, after Sean had left and the divorce finalized. She worked with him most every day, and she was his shadow more often than not. She had more meals with him than anyone else in Durant. Yeah, right now, they were more or less work spouses. That might change, thought, he _had_ told her he wanted her to stay…

"That's because we're friends, not because we're hot stuff to Philly eyes." After she said it, she realized that was the absolute truth. Maybe the rest would happen someday, or maybe not. Whichever, they were friends first, unlike Claudia, who only seemed to be trying to undermine her happiness in Durant.

"You're conflicted, Vickie," Claudia said, trying to signal Henry for another whiskey sour. "You should come back to Philly, where you fit in."

Fit in? She fit in just fine right here. It had taken her over three years to realize it, but realize it she did.

As the fourth whiskey sour arrived, Vic pocketed Claudia's keys and sighed. Yep, she'd be driving Claudia to the Owen Wister for her luxury room, and hopefully a whopping hangover.

**XXX**

**Skip to…**

**A Few Days Before Chapter 1…**

**(After Chapter 13)**

**The Pasture Gate**

After they finished washing up from dinner, Walt sat on the couch with a Rainier, Vic with a good red wine from Henry. She had straddled, kissed him lightly and unsnapped his shirt, but he was in his head at the moment, seemingly distracted and not really on the same wavelength. She backed off to sit on the coffee table to figure it out. Because she'd observed him for so many years, she did what she had learned to do: confront him and call him out on staying in his head.

"What's the problem?" she asked directly, not giving him an out.

He sighed. "It keeps coming back to me, that there will always be The Age Thing between us."

She tried to keep it light. "With us? You mean with me, with Horse, or both of us?"

"Well…" She thought—he had _not_ expected _that _question—"both, but Horse has a lot of years left."

She gave _him_ her own version of Horse Eye, and asked with a straight face, "And _I_ _don't_?"

"You know that's not what I mean."

"So, about Horse, if she dies of, oh, colic or a cough or something, you gonna be like you were after Martha died? Spend all day in your head?"

"No," he said gruffly.

"How old is Horse, anyway?"

"Maybe ten, from her teeth. She has a lot of years left."

"So, maybe twenty more?"

"Yep, maybe."

"How many more you think you have left?"

"Me?"

"Yep, Walt Longmire, if you don't get shot Sheriffing and get to retire, how many do you figure you can give Horse?"

"I don't know. Depends, I guess. I never thought I'd outlive Martha."

She bit her lip. "There is that. Nobody for sure knows what the future has in store. But, you and Horse, you might have another twenty years together, maybe?"

"Maybe."

"You and me, thirty, maybe?"

"Maybe."

"I don't see the problem, I really don't."

"She could be gone tomorrow. I leave the pasture gate open every day for a while to see if she's ready to be free again."

"And she chooses to stay with you."

"Yep, so far."

"And what if I wanted that FBI job or something back in Philly again? I could be gone tomorrow. Would you leave the pasture gate open for me?"

A long pause. "Of course, if you decide to go, I won't stand in your way." She could hear bleakness in his voice. She moved closer again, looped her arms loosely around his neck.

"She and I both know that. It's why Horse and I are both still here." She murmured for his ear only, "and we both let you, and only you, ride us." She nipped at the same ear. "She and I have more in common than you might think." Her smile, head turned into his chest, was both private and knowing.

From where she lay draped against his unsnapped shirt, she could see the blush go right down his chest.


End file.
